


To Speak the Unspoken

by ihamtmus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Platonic Relationships, Pre-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Stabbing, Whump, YEAH they're friends who would die for each other even if they can't admit it at this point in canon, and it's canon compliant so yeah..., as happy as it can get and still be, not only emotional tho, there's a wound there but nothing is graphic there's just some blood in the first chapter, there's not much plot for a 33k fic we just sit in their heads for the whole time, they can't say it out loud but they can still discover some things right? right, they have so many misconceptions about each other and they're getting shattered in this fic, this happens several years before the scene where crowley asks for holy water, updates twice a week!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29686932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihamtmus/pseuds/ihamtmus
Summary: “Uhhhh… Hi,” Crowley started lamely, scrambling to find a way to explain the situation as quickly as possible. His mind was refusing to work properly, thoughts slow as if doused in oil. He hadn’t really thought about what to say on his way here – he’d been too busy focusing on thegetting herepart before he would collapse. “I was wondering if I could… If I could maybe die in here, if you don’t mind..?”The expression on Aziraphale’s face changed abruptly, telling him that the angel did, in fact, mind.(In which a mortally wounded demon just wants to get somewhere quiet to die but his Adversary will have none of it. A story of how they both learn just how much they care.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 174
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first serious fic and I'm EXCITED to share it! 
> 
> I'm not a native English speaker so the lovely AngstyDathomirians checked the grammar for me, thank you dear! 
> 
> There's a stab wound and some blood in this chapter (nothing graphic), as well as mentions of suturing the wound (but it's not described). The emotional hardships get much more focus here! 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy and tell me what you think!!! 

**London, Soho, 1854**

Crowley somehow managed to knock again after having been ignored the first two times, and he hoped he managed to do it loud enough. He also hoped, desperately, that the angel was home. Out of breath, he leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his stomach and willing himself to remain standing. A bad idea, perhaps, as the door to the bookshop was unexpectedly yanked open – he probably _should_ have expected that, seeing as he knocked and all, but it somehow still took him by surprise – and, suddenly deprived of his support, the demon swayed dangerously on his feet, reaching out with his hands to lean on the doorframe instead. He stifled a pained gasp.

“It clearly says we’re clo-“ Aziraphale cut himself off mid-sentence, eyes widening as he took in the demon in front of him. “Crowley? What on Earth has happened to you?” He sounded alarmed. Worried. His hands hovered around Crowley, as if the angel was unsure whether or not he should reach out at all.

Crowley decided to take this as a good sign. He hoped the angel would let him in, and soon, because, frankly, he wasn’t sure how much longer his legs would support him.

“Uhhhh… Hi,” he started lamely, scrambling to find a way to explain the situation as quickly as possible. His mind was refusing to work properly, thoughts slow as if doused in oil. He hadn’t really thought about what to say on his way here – he’d been too busy focusing on the _getting here_ part before he would collapse. “I was wondering if I could… If I could maybe die in here, if you don’t mind..?”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face changed abruptly, telling him that the angel did, in fact, mind. Crowley quickly replayed his words in his mind, trying to determine what he’d said wrong. Why did his brain have to be so foggy? He knew visiting each other’s places wasn’t really their thing, they usually tried to meet on neutral ground, but it wasn’t like it had never happened before. And, surely, the angel could see the situation was quite desperate? Crowley opened his mouth to say something else but Aziraphale grabbed him by the arms and dragged him inside, closing the door behind them, before he could even think of what to say.

“Do I mind?!” The angel sounded incredulous but he ushered him into the backroom and sat him down on the sofa, for which Crowley was grateful. He leaned back with a hiss despite the pain that intensified in his abdomen at the movement. He really couldn’t support himself any longer, it hurt more and more.

“Do I _mind_?!” The angel repeated, now sounding angry. Crowley decided not to pay it much attention, seeing as he had, after all, let him in. So Aziraphale would complain, but Crowley would be allowed to stay, and that was all he wanted.

“Of course I mind if you die here, Crowley, what the hell?!” Aziraphale was positively livid now and Crowley resisted the urge to say _well if you mind it so terribly then why did you let me in?_ in favor of peeling his eyes open to look at him. He must have closed them at some point.

The angel was crouching in front of him, looking at the blood covering his jacket, expression a mix of anger, panic, and worry. Crowley suddenly felt uneasy, he didn’t want the angel to look like that. Aziraphale reached to undo the buttons, seemed to think better of it, snapped his fingers, and the demon’s jacket and shirt found themselves neatly folded on the armchair opposite the sofa. Aziraphale gasped at the revealed wound, frowning even more, but, honestly, what had he expected? Crowley had said he was dying, hadn’t he? It’s not like he hadn’t warned him, Aziraphale was just being dramatic.

“What happened?” He sounded decidedly less angry now, much more worried, though. Crowley didn’t think he liked the change too much.

“Got stabbed,” he stated what he thought was quite obvious. Aziraphale knew what stab wounds looked like. Had healed a whole bunch of them, the ever helpful idiot, and Crowley knew the angel himself had been stabbed a couple of times in the past. Crowley had been, too, but this time it was different, obviously.

“I can see that.” Aziraphale’s tone took on a sour note and Crowley bit back the irritated _then why did you ask_ , deciding it wasn’t really worth spending his dwindling strength on, as satisfying as it would have been. He could see the angel letting out a deep breath, his expression changing into something much more collected and close to normal, Crowley was glad to note.

“So,” Aziraphale said, looking at his guest’s face with a small relieved smile. “You got stabbed. And the wound isn’t mortal, if taken care of. Nobody is dying, then. I can see that you have lost a lot of energy and so you cannot heal yourself right now, but, if you will allow me, I will fix this right away.” He reached out to put his hand on Crowley’s stomach but the demon clasped his blood-covered hand on the angel’s wrist. Aziraphale looked up at him, puzzled, a silent question in his eyes. Crowley shook his head slightly, and instantly regretted it when the world swayed around him. He closed his eyes again, suddenly feeling very tired. Apparently, Aziraphale hadn’t understood him. He needed to make this clear.

“It was a holy blade,” he said quietly, voice hoarse. He didn’t want to open his eyes, but he did anyway, he had to. He wished he hadn’t. Aziraphale was staring at him, face drained of all color, eyes wide and mouth slightly opened in shock. Crowley immediately wanted to close his eyes again, but it was too late, he’d already seen it, and now the angel’s miserable expression was burned into the backs of his eyelids. He _had_ told him he was dying right from the start and Aziraphale had let him in anyway, was it his fault he hadn’t believed him? The angel should have known he wouldn’t lie to him, especially not about something as dire as this. And now he had that distressed expression on his face and it was all wrong. Crowley cursed inwardly. He should have known this was a bad idea.

“Look, just.. just let me lie here, okay?” He almost added _please_ at the end but he didn’t want to make the angel’s expression any more unacceptable than it already was, and that could do it. Besides, he didn’t think Aziraphale would actually make him leave. It was _Aziraphale_ , after all. “I’m not gonna bother you, swear. Just.. forget I’m even here.” This was definitely the wrong thing to say because now Aziraphale had tears in his eyes and.. bless it, he couldn’t focus. What had he said wrong this time? Aziraphale was crying because of him, good job him, well done. If only his stomach hadn’t hurt so damn much, if he had just managed to get his brain to cooperate, he would’ve been able to make this right again.

“Nonsense,” he heard Aziraphale say. His voice was a bit more distant now, even though the angel hadn’t moved from his spot in front of Crowley. “Of course you can lie down, don’t be silly, here.” With gentle hands, he guided the demon down so that he was lying on his side. Crowley couldn’t suppress the moan of pain and winced, embarrassed. Aziraphale, thankfully, didn’t comment on it. Instead, he turned back to look at Crowley, pinning him down with sharp eyes. “But if you thought you could just come here and die, my dear boy,” his voice was hard again, thick with defiance and determination, “then I think perhaps you’ve got the wrong shop.”

*******

Aziraphale wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t. Admittedly, there had been a moment when he felt very much like the ground underneath him had opened and tried to swallow him whole, but that moment had passed. He could do this. Crowley needed his help.

Not that the idiot had come here for help. Aziraphale still couldn’t believe he’d thought he could just come here and… and what? Lie down and die? And did he really expect him to go about his business, ignoring the dying demon? Aziraphale felt the anger coming back but determinedly pushed it away, focusing on the matter at hand. Crowley was hot to the touch, clearly feverish, and wasn’t thinking straight. That must have been it.

He did his best to ignore the voice in his head that kept telling him to do just what the demon suggested. His Adversary was mortally wounded and a good angel should rejoice. A good angel should sit back and watch as his Hereditary Enemy breathed his last, perhaps even quicken the process. Aziraphale felt sick. He supposed he wasn’t a very good angel because he really wished the voice would just shut up, once and for all. He could hear it every time something like this happened, urging him to ignore his mortal Enemy’s certainly well-deserved struggles and do what was expected of him. So far, he’d managed to ignore the voice each time, rationalizing his actions as best he could, and it had been growing weaker and weaker over the centuries. It was barely a whisper now, and it was relatively easy to push back against.

The very thought that he could listen to it one day was sometimes too much for Aziraphale, but then, the thought that he was ignoring something he should listen to was usually an easy way to send him into a spiral of panic. He felt the telling signs of its grip reaching towards his stomach even as he went to fetch the first aid kit. Rationalization helped most of the time, though, so that’s what he needed to do, panicking would help no one. He just needed to list all the reasons why he was doing what he was doing, proving to himself that it was for the best. He’d recited it so many times that knew the list by heart by now, but it just made him feel better to repeat it to himself sometimes. It made the voice easier to ignore.

 _He wasn’t helping the Enemy to betray Heaven. He was an angel, a benevolent being of love, which meant he was expected to be benevolent and loving towards all living things. Demons included, no matter what the voice was saying._ He found the first aid kit in the bathroom cupboard and went to grab some rags from the small kitchen. The list continued.

 _He and Crowley had an Arrangement, which was certainly beneficial for the Great Plan, seeing as his assignments were always completed without the enemy interference, and he had more time to focus on guiding people towards the light._ Admittedly, he didn’t always use the spare time to that end but that was beside the point.

 _It was in Heaven’s best interests to keep the Arrangement going – and to have the Arrangement going, he needed Crowley alive and well, it was as simple as that._ He grabbed a bunch of clean rags from above the oven and took a bowl to fill it with warm water.

 _Crowley was… not very evil, if he could say so. He was certainly far less malicious than one could reasonably expect from his kind, as he’d proved time and again. His mischief-making tendencies were not very harmful on the whole. He didn’t constantly come up with ideas for how to damn everyone around him, like other demons tended to. One could even go as far as to say he was quite tolerable. Agreeable, even._ Normally, Aziraphale would call him kind, but not while rationalizing. Rationalizing demanded having as angelic outlook on things as Aziraphale could muster, and he doubted any other angel would be inclined to claim any demon was kind. Besides, Crowley himself didn’t like being called that, so Aziraphale tried to keep it to himself, mostly.

 _It was certainly better to have Crowley stationed here on Earth than any other demon they could send in his place. Therefore, it was his angelic duty to make sure Crowley stayed stationed right where he was._ The bowl was full now and, equipped with everything he needed, he turned back towards the bookshop’s backroom.

Seeing Crowley’s still form sent a pang through his chest. He ignored it.

 _He wasn’t doing this for selfish reasons, he wasn’t doing this because he cared about the demon, he certainly wasn’t doing this because he thought of him as his friend. No. That would be very inappropriate indeed, and he would never do something so unbefitting of an angel._ Usually, the list would end here. But this situation was different from any previous one, wasn’t it? This time, Crowley was mortally wounded, not just in danger of discorporation, but wounded with a holy blade. He swallowed around the tight lump in his throat, and added one last reason to the list.

 _The demon wanted to die in his bookshop. But wasn’t it his duty to thwart his plans at every step? He planned to die so of course Aziraphale had to prevent it. Thwarting, that’s all it was._ He took a deep breath. Right. As far as rationalizations went, this one wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t going to let the idiot die on him, which was very angelic of him, and he had just listed every proof of that. Another deep breath, and he could feel the grip of panic loosen. Having successfully banished the sickening voice to its place at the back of his head, he moved to kneel next to the sofa, arranging his load next to him on the floor.

Crowley looked pale, even paler than he had when he’d come, which had been just a couple of minutes before. His face was pulled tight and his breaths were ragged, shallow, his hair plastered onto the sweaty forehead. Blood was oozing slowly but surely out of the wound on the demon’s stomach and onto the sofa, sinking into the old material. Aziraphale swallowed, feeling a different kind of panic threatening to overwhelm him. The demon had said he was dying, and as much as Aziraphale tried to believe he could think of something to help, he had no idea whether or not it was true.

He took a rag, dipped it in the warm water, and squeezed it out. What was he supposed to do? He knew he had to clean the wound, suture and bandage it to stop the bleeding. Only that it wouldn’t help, would it? He knew it wouldn’t. Crowley knew it too, that’s why he was so set on the dying part. Not discorporating, but properly dying. The wound itself wasn’t very deep or actually life-threatening if taken care of. But the damage done to his essence was not so easily repaired, Aziraphale knew that.

He didn’t know much besides that. He had never been wounded with a celestial blade, or a demonic one for that matter. As far as he knew, Crowley hadn’t been either – and, judging by how certain he was the wound was going to kill him, his guess must be correct. Aziraphale hoped the demon was only so certain because he was feverish and scared, and didn’t have an actual reason to think the wound was untreatable. There must be a way for the angel to help. There must be. Crowley seemed to think there wasn’t, but how could he be sure if he’d never had to deal with one?

He was aware that trying to heal it with a miracle was out of the question, which was probably why Crowley had stopped him earlier when he’d moved to do just that. A holy wound was bad enough to deal with, adding any more holiness to the mix would’ve only worsened the demon’s state, or it would’ve actually killed him. Crowley’s demonic miracles wouldn’t work either, not on a holy wound, otherwise he would have dealt with that already. Maybe Aziraphale could try to mend the gap in his true form somehow? Or give the demon some of his own energy, to make up for the loss? He would work something out, surely. He looked down at the rag in his hand. He must have squeezed almost all the water out, what with the force he was doing it. He made himself loosen his grip. He needed to focus.

Alright, one thing at a time. He should take care of the physical wound first. At least he knew how to do _that_. He’d done it quite a few times before, and had been at the receiving end of the treatment, too. Tending to each other’s wounds went into the “lend a hand when needed” part of the Arrangement, he supposed. Nothing more personal than that.

As gently as he could, willing his hands not to shake, he started to wipe the blood from around the wound. He needed to see it more clearly if he meant to stitch it. At the contact, Crowley shuddered violently and a sharp hiss left his mouth, hands flying to his stomach to stop Aziraphale from touching the hurt area.

“I’m frightfully sorry, my dear,” he said because he was, he really was. But still, he moved Crowley’s hands out of the way and began cleaning the wound again. The demon's face twitched and Aziraphale looked away, decided to focus on his task.

“What are you doing?” Crowley’s voice was hoarse and weak, but still filled with incredulity. Aziraphale huffed to distract himself from the pang of hurt at the demon’s obvious surprise at being taken care of.

“Cleaning the wound, as I’m sure you can see.” He tried to summon some of his earlier irritation and put it into his tone to prevent the concern from leaking into it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the demon’s eyebrows furrow.

“Why?”

Aziraphale’s heart missed a beat. He dipped the rag in the warm water again and squeezed it out, putting all his raging emotions into the motion. Water splattered into the bowl, some droplets missing the mark and landing on the carpet instead. Aziraphale didn’t much care.

“Did you really think I would, as you’ve so nicely put it, ‘forget you’re even here’?” He hoped his voice came out more collected than he felt, and the demon didn’t hear how much his little question had hurt.

Did he really, truly think that? Did he think Aziraphale would actually listen to the nasty voice in his head? That Aziraphale wouldn’t do all he could to silence or ignore it, as he always did, and do whatever he could to help, _as he always did_? Oh, he hated this. He hated the way his heart constricted, hated Crowley’s little broken _why_ , hated the blood seeping onto his sofa. But, most of all, he hated the voice at the back of his head, perhaps now more than ever, and hated himself for ever entertaining the thought of listening to it, because Crowley was _right_ to ask that question, and Aziraphale had never felt more wretched. He was suddenly glad the demon’s eyes were covered because he didn’t want to, he _couldn’t_ , see the doubt in them. Because it had the right to be there. All the rationalization felt like ash on his tongue.

“Hmm.. no, not really,” the demon admitted and it felt a bit like a slap, because he should have, he _should have_ thought that.

Aziraphale was torn between being glad that Crowley didn’t think so little of him after all and feeling guilty because of that trust being quite unfounded. He took a breath. It wasn’t completely unfounded, was it? He _was_ trying to help, despite the voice and the rationalizations. He began wiping the wound again. The blood was still oozing out of it, so he should move faster, his previous efforts were almost undone now.

“Just don’t know what you’re trying to do here, is all,” Crowley added. Aziraphale reached for a fresh rag and repeated his previous movements. Wiping off blood was easy enough. He could do this.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley clearly wanted him to say something. The angel wiped at the last of the blood and pressed another clean rag against the cut flesh, drawing a pained hiss out of the demon.

“Dreadfully sorry,” he said, because he was. He was. “Could you hold this, please? I need to thread the needle.”

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was still hoarse but it managed to sound gentle, all the same. Aziraphale didn’t look at him, instead taking the demon’s wrist and guiding his hand down to place it over the rag covering the wound.

“Hold it tight”

“Angel.” He said it so quietly but his tone was still filled with both concern and urgency. Aziraphale finally looked up at him, struggling to read his face. It looked carefully blank, and the sunglasses didn’t help with divulging anything.

“There’s nothing you can do. You know that, right?” It was said softer still. The tone didn’t match the message it carried and Aziraphale flinched. There was a short pause and then the demon sighed.

“Bless it, Aziraphale, I’ve already told you twice.” Crowley suddenly sounded tired, and he turned his face away again. He didn’t let go of the rag, however, so Aziraphale reached into the first aid kit to retrieve the needle and surgical suture, as well as a bottle of desensitizer. It wouldn’t do to cause the demon any more pain. He wasn’t _ignoring_ Crowley’s words, per se, he was just showing him where he could shove them. Because they weren’t true, couldn’t be true. Aziraphale wouldn’t let them be true.

Threading the needle proved a bit more difficult than it usually was, but Aziraphale tried not to dwell on the reason why his hands were shaking so badly. With the suture finally ready, the angel removed Crowley’s hand and the rag from over the wound, and dabbed the desensitizer on the skin around it. The demon still wasn’t looking at him, but at least he didn’t protest further.

“The anesthetic should deal with most of the pain, but it can still sting a little,” the angel warned. Crowley only grunted in response. Aziraphale inhaled deeply. He supposed the demon didn’t realize how serious the physical wound actually was, focusing on the ethereal part of the damage. As much as he didn’t want to, he needed to do this or Crowley would discorporate, and that was the last thing they needed because then the angel certainly wouldn’t have been able to help anymore.

His hand paused with the needle on the verge of breaking skin. It was quite horrible to even think that, but maybe… Maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing to happen?

“Crowley?” he began and stopped, unsure of how to phrase it. And, to be honest, unsure whether the idea was any good at all, and what the demon would think of it. They generally did their best to stop each other from discorporating, but desperate times called for desperate measures, didn’t they?

Crowley shifted slightly.

“If you’re gonna do it, just get it over with,” he said curtly and Aziraphale, more uncertain with each passing second, felt the words get stuck behind the lump in his throat. But he needed to say them. He forced himself to swallow.

“If I… didn’t stitch it…” he started again. He took a breath. “You would discorporate.”

Well, _that_ made Crowley turn back towards him. He looked tense. Clearly, he hadn’t realized that.

“Your point?” His voice was carefully blank and Aziraphale forced himself to continue.

“Maybe I shouldn’t stitch it, then.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how it’d sounded, and he wished he’d phrased it differently. Suddenly, the demon’s breaths quickened, and his hands flew towards Aziraphale, grabbing him by the sleeves. Aziraphale looked at him in alarm at the sudden change in attitude.

“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley whispered urgently, voice breaking. He lifted his head, looking like he was trying to sit up but was too weak to do so. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Please.”

Aziraphale’s heart squeezed painfully. He hurried to explain, pushing gently on Crowley’s forehead to make him lie back down again. It was burning.

“Easy, my dear,” he hushed. He brushed Crowley’s hair away from his damp forehead. “I only meant, maybe it would be better for you to discorporate and go to Hell, however bad that sounds. _You_ might not be able to heal yourself, but there are some powerful demons down there, I reckon.” Aziraphale didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of this right away, really. They weren’t alone in the Universe, after all, and Crowley had other people that could help him. This could work. “They would be able to heal the wound in your true form, I’m quite certain they would!”

Crowley’s grip on his arms tightened.

“Please,” he repeated quietly. “I don’t… “ He swallowed with difficulty. “I don’t want to die in Hell.” It was said so softly Aziraphale barely heard it. The angel frowned.

“That’s not what I meant,” he protested. “I said, they could _heal_ you, Crowley. Even if they don’t like you very much, I’m sure they would, or you could persuade them to-“

“No,” the demon interrupted. “No, they wouldn’t”.

Aziraphale felt the anger coming back.

“Isn’t it at least worth a try?” he demanded, unable to understand why the demon had given up on his life already. Wasn’t he the one who was forever optimistic, no matter the circumstances? It was Aziraphale’s role to fret and worry, and Crowley’s to insist everything was going to be fine. He didn’t know how to play the demon’s part, but Crowley was forcing him to. It felt… unfamiliar. Wrong.

“No, angel, it isn’t,” came the reply. He released Aziraphale’s arms and the angel gently guided his hands back down onto the sofa. Crowley sighed. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ to try. But I _know_ they won’t be able to help. Nobody is. That’s what I keep telling you, but you don’t want to listen.”

“How can you be sure, though?” Aziraphale didn’t want to give up the only solution they had that could actually work.

Crowley shook his head slowly. Sadly.

“I’ve seen it before. Demons dying of holy wounds.” He faced away from him again and Aziraphale held his breath, knowing what he was referring to. Crowley never brought up the subject of the Fall, not unless he was properly drunk. “Many were killed still in Heaven, during the Rebellion,” he continued with a voice that was clearly struggling to remain steady. “But some were mortally wounded and cast down. Others tried to heal them… or some of them, at least. But no one could.” He paused for a moment, taking a few breaths. Aziraphale waited, feeling the ground below threatening to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole, again.

“Even Lucifer tried, at some point, but… we lost them all. Nobody bothered to try, after. Ever again,” Crowley finished. He turned his face towards Aziraphale again, and the angel wished he could see his eyes, but was glad they were covered at the same time. “The demons who are wounded with a holy blade and end up in Hell… they die. And everybody only watches and laughs. Aziraphale, please, I-” his voice hitched and Aziraphale put a hand on his arm, gently squeezing.

“Well then, in that case, you’re not going there.” He forced himself to smile. Crowley let out a shaking breath and fell back against the sofa, muscles finally relaxing again.

Aziraphale looked back down at the wound and suppressed a curse. It was bleeding again, of course it was. Stupid. He really needed to pull himself together or Crowley would discorporate whether he wanted to or not.

“And those other demons, the ones who died,” he said softly, wet rags wiping the blood off the wound again. “They didn’t have an angel to help them, did they?”

Crowley didn’t answer but Aziraphale felt hope and determination coming back to him in a rush. The ground could wait and swallow him some other day. If he wanted Crowley to stay here on Earth, he needed to stop the bleeding and do something about that fever. Then he would see what he could do about the demon’s true form. Right. One step at a time, he could do this. Crowley needed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter on Saturday!  
> PLEASE tell me what you think, this is my first real fic and I need validation haha :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’re not going to find anything just because you keep looking.” It was a bit brutal, but certainly less cruel than letting the angel go on believing.  
>  Aziraphale just looked sad. Crowley wanted to shake him, angry – with the stupid, stubborn angel, or with himself for causing the entire situation in the first place, he wasn’t really sure. Aziraphale watched him for a long moment, then his eyes returned to the book in his lap and he started reading again.  
>  “I’m not going to give up just because you have,” he said quietly after a few minutes. It sounded final, his voice holding both a promise and a challenge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I want to thank everyone who's read the previous chapter, left kudos, subscribed or commented, it really means so, so much to me!! Love you all!  
> 
> 
> Here's another chapter! Hope you like it <3  
> 
> 
> (Warning for a mild and short panic attack, I think - in the third section, after the second set of asterisks)

Aziraphale wiped the sweat off the demon’s face, changed the wet compress on the burning forehead and sighed. His hand lingered on the wet cloth. He’d stitched and bandaged the wound, the bleeding had mostly stopped. Crowley wouldn’t discorporate before… before he found a way to help. The fever wouldn’t kill him but it certainly made the experience much less pleasant for the demon and Aziraphale wished he could do something more about it.

He hated seeing Crowley like this. He was always so loud and obnoxious, filling up any room he was in with his presence. And now he was lying still, asleep. Or maybe unconscious, Aziraphale wasn’t sure anymore. He could feel the wet compress slowly absorb the demon’s body heat, it was almost warm now. He waited a moment longer and then changed the cloth again. He needed to go back to reading. Reluctantly, with one last look at the demon’s face, he got up and returned to the armchair nearby, reaching for another book.

He’d spent the last couple of hours like this, scanning any text that could potentially hold answers but, time and again, his search had proved fruitless. So far. He had to find something eventually, right? Right. Aziraphale’s eyes skimmed through a promising-looking chapter of a book on celestial metal production and its properties, but could see nothing of use. It was getting harder and harder to reign in his frustration whenever a book seemed to dangle the subject of holy blades in front of his face, rekindling his hope each time, only to stomp on the burning knot with remarks on how useful a weapon they were, and how effective at killing demons.

He snapped the book shut. Then, he put it onto the growing but crumpling pile next to the armchair, disgusted. He fixed the books with a glare. They were in a disarray, some threatening to fall down in a manner that would undoubtedly leave the pages crinkled but he didn’t move to fix it. He found he didn’t care. It would serve the damned books well, actually.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, knowing the situation was taking its toll on him. He took a deep breath, then another. Then, he bent down to stabilize the toppling tower. He had to keep his wits about himself. The books were not to blame here.

The thing was, he still didn’t know who _was_ to blame for the whole mess. Aziraphale hadn’t thought to ask at first, more occupied with the wound and what to do about it than the reason behind it, and Crowley hadn’t exactly volunteered the information, either. He could only assume that the demon had run into some angel, and provoked them somehow. His stomach churned at the thought that this wasn’t necessarily true. He knew many angels wouldn’t need much… provocation… to draw a blade on a demon. He’d never really understood this, but he supposed it was an expected angelic behavior. He stood up to distract himself from the voice trying to get to the forefront of his mind again. He wouldn’t let it gain strength now, not when he was already so tightly strung. He couldn’t deal with it twice on the same day.

Resuming his earlier position on the edge of the sofa, he moved to wipe up the demon’s clammy face again. Crowley’s sunglasses were still placed firmly on his nose. Aziraphale looked at them for a long while with a weird feeling spreading in his chest. He itched to reach out and take them off, he wanted to see Crowley’s entire face, to be able to see it when he woke up, to make sure he was still there. He didn’t. Couldn’t, really. Crowley hadn’t taken them off himself, so they would stay.

Crowley never took off his sunglasses, these days. Aziraphale had always suspected it was about something more than just mingling with the humans, making it easier for the demon to move about inconspicuously. Otherwise, he’d take them off in Aziraphale’s company, who already knew what his eyes looked like, obviously. He never did, though. Aziraphale had resolved not to comment on this, sensing it was a sensitive subject for the demon, who was obviously trying to hide something else besides his demonic nature. And, if he was honest with himself, even if the angel didn’t like to admit it, they helped to keep the voice in its place at the back of Aziraphale’s mind. He hated it, but it was true.

Still, he desperately wanted to see the demon’s eyes now. To make sure they weren’t clouded with pain and fever, even though he knew they would have been, if he’d been able to see them. Carefully maneuvering around the shades, he finished cleaning up the demon’s face, and let his hands fall back into his lap. He felt wrung out, just like the cloth he was still holding. Crowley was completely vulnerable now, Aziraphale realized, the sunglasses the only defense he had left. He would not deprive him of it, not at a moment like this.

He took the now warm compress from the demon’s forehead and dipped it in the cold water in the bowl. He supposed he could miracle it cold again, but he needed to be doing _something_. He replaced it carefully on Crowley’s head and saw him twitch.

“Cold…” the demon mumbled, and Aziraphale felt some of the tension leave him at the sound of his voice. He was still here, he still had time. The angel reached to adjust the blanket he’d covered Crowley with, making sure it was wrapped securely around his shoulders.

“You still have a fever,” he said quietly, touching the demon’s cheek to assess how true that statement was. It was still very much true, sadly. He pretended not to notice the way Crowley leaned into his touch, moving his hand away instead. It would not do to dwell on such things.

“Do you suppose you can drink some water?” he asked tentatively. He had to try and make use of the time the demon was awake. Technically, Crowley didn’t need to drink water to sustain himself, but Aziraphale guessed it could help with lowering his body heat. Anyway, it couldn’t hurt to get some water into him. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if a demon’s corporation could actually dehydrate, but it wasn’t exactly supposed to sweat like this, either. Crowley mumbled something that sounded affirmative, so the angel moved behind him.

“This might hurt a bit but I need to hold you up,” he warned before gently lifting the demon’s upper body in his arms. As he expected, Crowley tensed and gasped a little, but seemed to relax minutely after a moment. Aziraphale miracled up a glass of water and held it up against the demon’s lips, who took a few uncertain gulps, the action clearly taking much from him, some of the water escaping his mouth and dripping down his chin. Aziraphale decided to pay no attention to the way his heart ached at the sight. It wouldn’t do any good.

When he was almost halfway through, Crowley grunted quietly and pressed his lips together. Aziraphale wordlessly miracled the glass away and forced himself to let go of the demon, laying him back down onto the sofa. His hands, suddenly empty, grabbed the compress that had slipped down next to them and wiped Crowley’s mouth, then dipped the cloth in the bowl again.

“How are you feeling?” he hazarded the question when he’d placed the compress back on the demon’s forehead. He didn’t know how awake Crowley actually was but, even if he wasn’t up for conversation, Aziraphale couldn’t just get up from the sofa without a word.

“Peachy,” came a hoarse answer and he smiled despite himself. The response was so very _Crowley_ that it made him feel a bit better, even if it was obviously a blatant lie.

“Good,” he said softly, mostly to himself. He looked at the books. He needed to get back to reading. He didn’t want to leave Crowley’s side, especially not now that he was awake, but one look at his true form reminded him that time was of essence. He sighed quietly. He wanted to say something, wanted to somehow reassure the demon that he was doing his best to find a way to help, or at least put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t. It wasn’t something they did, it wasn’t something they _could_ do. Aziraphale stood up and returned to the armchair.

“Try to rest,” he whispered and reached for another book.

*******

Aziraphale stood up and left, and Crowley felt his absence rather more keenly than he was comfortable to admit. It had hurt to be held up like that, but – even though he knew it was just to help him drink the water – it had almost felt like a hug. Embarrassingly, Crowley wished it had lasted a bit longer. Admitting it to himself felt like a defeat, but what was another defeat on a day like this? He was already defeated, finally and thoroughly. He had little strength left to pretend.

From behind his sunglasses, he traced the angel’s movements. He watched him sit down and start reading. It was dark outside now, even though he recalled dimly it had still been late afternoon when he’d arrived, and a lamp standing on the floor next to the armchair was the only source of light in the otherwise gloomy bookshop. It was casting a warm glow on the angel, drowning his pale curls in light. _Like a halo_ , Crowley thought to himself, slightly amused. Sitting like this, absorbed in a book, Aziraphale looked almost serene. Almost. His brow was furrowed slightly and he kept glancing his way every few minutes with a worried expression but at least he was trying to distract himself from the unpleasant thing currently happening in his bookshop.

Crowley was glad. He’d been worried for a moment there, really worried, that the angel wouldn’t let go, would insist on trying to save him even though there was nothing he could do. All that would have achieved was Aziraphale blaming himself for not being able to help, which was the last thing Crowley wanted. The thought of putting the angel through something like that was surprisingly unsettling. Or not so surprisingly, if he was being honest, which he rarely was. So, it was a good thing Aziraphale had decided to go read something instead of sitting by his side and fretting; it really was better this way, and Crowley’s heart had no business hurting like that.

Besides, Aziraphale had clearly done his best to make sure Crowley was comfortable, he’d wrapped him up in a blanket and helped him drink some water, even if it wouldn’t actually help any, not in the long run. The thought left a warm feeling in his chest. He felt his heart swell with something like gratitude, or maybe relief, seeing the angel cared enough to stay in the room. He couldn’t really bring himself to regret bothering him if it meant he didn’t have to die alone. And, if he was honest with himself again, he was glad the person who was there with him at the end was Aziraphale. He quite liked the idea of the angel peacefully reading a book being the last thing he saw, truth be told. It seemed as good an end as a demon could ever hope for, certainly better than he deserved. He was grateful Aziraphale had made sure he wouldn’t discorporate before retreating to his armchair; otherwise, Crowley’s last sight would’ve been far less pleasant. He really owed him big time, not that he would be able to pay him back. He watched the angel turn the pages for several long moments, feeling more at peace than he’d have expected was possible in his present situation.

Then, without a warning, Aziraphale slammed the book shut with a loud _thud_ and cursed, actually cursed, almost throwing it down onto a big pile next to him that the demon had failed to notice before. Crowley’s eyebrows hiked up nearly to his hairline. Never before, since books became a thing, had Crowley seen Aziraphale handle any of them with anything but the utmost care. Reverence, almost. Even crappy romance novels of dubious quality could expect a royal treatment from the angel. _Humans pour their hearts and souls into these_ , he’d always said. _We have to cherish them!_ What had he been reading that it managed to prompt such a reaction? Puzzled, he watched Aziraphale reach for another book. Crowley noticed there was a whole stack of them on the coffee table, now that he turned to look. Was the angel doing some kind of inspection? It didn’t make much sense but he couldn’t make his feverish brain provide any logical explanation.

Then it happened again, the book Aziraphale had been holding just a moment ago now joining the others on the floor. The angel looked like he had to stop himself from tearing out the pages and that, more than anything, prompted Crowley to speak before he could think better of it.

“What’s wrong with the books?”

Aziraphale looked up at him quickly, irritation in his face giving way to worry mixed with embarrassment. Crowley cursed inwardly. The angel was clearly trying to distract himself, trying to think of something else, doing some kind of a books’ round-up to take his mind off things, and Crowley went and ruined it for him. He winced apologetically.

“Uhhh… Don’t mind me… I mean, go on reading.” He wanted to put a _sorry_ somewhere in the sentence, but it felt flat. He should just stop talking.

Aziraphale huffed and reached for another book from the pile, then shook it in his hand.

“All they’re saying is complete nonsense, that’s what’s wrong,” he said curtly, and Crowley thought he could say the same about Aziraphale but knew better than to say it out loud. The angel continued talking.

“They keep going on about how effective… well, never mind that.” He suddenly looked abashed. “I will find something soon, though, don’t you worry!” He added quickly, putting on a clearly fake smile and Crowley felt his heart drop. _No_. “There’s still a couple of books left and one of the buggers has to hold some useful tips inside, right? I simply have to keep looking,’ he babbled in a reassuring tone. Crowley felt anything but reassured.

“Angel.” He hated the way his voice broke on the word. Aziraphale looked at him with eyes filled with worry and guilt and hope, and suddenly Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. What did he have to say for the angel to finally accept the truth? Why wouldn’t he just listen? He wanted to close his eyes and not have to deal with it anymore but he forced himself to continue because he needed Aziraphale to stop. It would only make things harder for him, later.

“Angel, you know why there’s nothing in the books,” he tried to sound gentle instead of tired. Probably just sounded resigned. Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest but Crowley quickly cut him off. “It’s because there’s nothing you can do. You’re not going to find anything just because you keep looking.” It was a bit brutal, but certainly less cruel than letting the angel go on believing.

Aziraphale just looked sad. Crowley wanted to shake him, angry – with the stupid, stubborn angel, or with himself for causing the entire situation in the first place, he wasn’t really sure. Aziraphale watched him for a long moment, then his eyes returned to the book in his lap and he started reading again.

“I’m not going to give up just because you have,” he said quietly after a few minutes. It sounded final, his voice holding both a promise and a challenge. Crowley closed his eyes.

“You should try and get some sleep, you need your strength,” Aziraphale added, voice gentler. “I’ll wake you when I find something.” He emphasized the word _when_ and Crowley felt his eyes start to burn behind his eyelids but he refused to let any tears drop. He couldn’t put a name to the feeling spreading in his chest.

He didn’t think he could sleep but he kept his eyes closed. He changed his mind, he didn’t want this to be his last sight: Aziraphale, worried, miserable, desperately trying to find a solution that wasn’t there. Especially since it was his fault, but he tried not to think about _that_. He focused on the throbbing pain in his abdomen instead. It was getting harder and harder to focus on anything, though. Before long, sleep finally claimed him again, one rogue tear sliding down his cheek.

*******

Aziraphale’s hands were shaking when he carefully put the last book back on the table. He felt drained, even the ridiculous urge to throw things around had left him. He had gone through every angelic book on something even slightly related to the problem they faced that he had in his collection, but in vain. He’d found nothing. And he’d been so sure somewhere there would be… but no.

Actually, scratch that. He had learnt one thing: holy wounds killed demons. Aziraphale put his head in his hands and willed himself to keep breathing. He didn’t technically need to breathe, but it did help to ground him. It was familiar, and rhythmic, and simple. Breathing, that he could do. He wasn’t so sure about other things any longer, though.

He looked over to Crowley, trying not to think about what could happen; he needed to take care of the present, too. He went back to the sofa and placed a hand on Crowley’s cheek. It was still much too warm, but no longer burning, and Aziraphale closed his eyes briefly. Crowley’s fever had been going down slowly but steadily these past few hours, thank God… or, well. _Thankfully_. He wasn’t sure God would actually help a demon. Besides, it was not necessarily a good thing, but he tried not to think about that for now.

He changed the compress and checked on the wound, something he did every quarter of an hour or so. He’d changed the bandages once, which had woken Crowley up for a short while, but the demon had been too out of it to protest much. Aziraphale almost wished he’d tried to argue again, because handling a barely conscious and unresponsive demon had done a number on his mind again, the voice coming back to whisper. Crowley was too vulnerable like this, much too vulnerable for Aziraphale’s liking.

They had helped each other in dire situations in the past, of course, but the angel couldn’t recall a situation when one of them had deliberately chosen to put himself in the other’s care while at the risk of losing consciousness, and for such a long time at that. Why had Crowley come here? Had he thought this through? Did he really trust him so much? Would Aziraphale trust him like this, letting the demon take care of his unconscious body, if the situation had been reversed? Aziraphale gave himself a mental shake. These weren’t safe things to wonder about. He was simply glad Crowley _had_ come, whatever his reasons had been. This way, Aziraphale could help him.

Could he, though? It seemed less and less likely, no matter how much Aziraphale was trying to deny it. He run his hand through his hair absentmindedly. Then he realized he still had Crowley’s blood on his fingers from checking up on the wound just now. He froze. He snapped his fingers and miracled the blood away before his mind could catch up with how awful that had been, but he started shaking anyway, he must have been too slow. Shaking was getting more and more violent and Aziraphale put a hand against his mouth to stop a sob from escaping. Was that it, then? Crowley was going to die?

Aziraphale didn’t want that to happen. Oh, he didn’t want that. He briefly wondered whether feeling such a desperation was befitting of an angel in a moment like this, no matter how ‘unfortunate’ for Heaven losing a demon like Crowley would be. The thought got snatched away by an upcoming panic almost immediately, though, and Aziraphale spared a second to be grateful for that, at least.

“Angel?” It was Crowley. Who was still alive, and awake now, and Aziraphale needed to stop shaking. “Angel, it’s okay,” Crowley’s voice was soft, softer than the angel had ever heard it before, and it was suddenly too much. A sob escaped him and Aziraphale’s eyes widened, hand tightening around his mouth. He didn’t want Crowley to see him like this, he should be the strong one now, what was wrong with him? Crowley needed him. And now the demon was reaching out a weak, shaking hand to put it on Aziraphale’s arm and, damn it, Crowley wasn’t supposed to be comforting _him_ , it should be the other way around. Aziraphale took a few steadying breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he managed. The corners of Crowley’s mouth went up, twisting his lips into something resembling a smile.

“Don’t be,” the demon replied, and paused for a moment, clearly gathering his thoughts to say something else. Aziraphale waited patiently, barely daring to breathe.

“It’s me who should be sorry,” said Crowley, letting go of his arm. The place where his hand had just been suddenly felt cold and Aziraphale suppressed a shiver. Crowley’s face was turned away from him. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have come here.”

Aziraphale flinched. Crowley turned his head back to him and Aziraphale stared, a million emotions and questions swirling around in his mind, wishing even more than before that he could see the demon’s eyes. His earlier thoughts were loud again in his mind. _You can trust me_ , he wanted to say, but he didn’t.

“I won’t hurt you,” is what he said instead. Crowley frowned.

“I know that,” he said with a puzzled voice.

Aziraphale took another deep breath and tried out a smile of his own. He supposed it was no better than the demon’s had been.

“That’s good,” he said quietly. It was Crowley’s turn to stare, or at least the angel guessed he was staring at him from behind his shades. Maybe he went back to sleep.

“I do know that,” the demon repeated, urgently. Not asleep, then. Aziraphale nodded.

“Good, good, yes. Good.” Were they going to just keep repeating that? It seemed a bit ridiculous but Aziraphale didn’t know what else to say.

“I only wish you didn’t have to see this, is all,” Crowley added, a strange emotion in his tone.

“Don’t you dare be sorry for _that_.” The sudden harshness in his voice surprised even him. Crowley closed his mouth. The angel rubbed his eyes. “I’m glad you came,” he added, more gently.

Crowley only nodded. Aziraphale hoped he was glad he’d come, too, and that he didn’t regret it. He didn’t know why it suddenly seemed so important and he didn’t want to think about it. He quickly changed the subject.

“More water?”

Crowley shook his head lightly. The demon did need to drink, though. He was still sweating so much, it couldn’t be doing him any good.

“I insist,” Aziraphale said after a beat. The demon sighed a little.

“Alright,” he answered in a voice so quiet that the angel barely heard him. A yes was a yes, though, and, with some maneuvering, Crowley was resting in his arms again. Aziraphale found he didn’t want to let go, suddenly scared the demon would be gone if he did, and putting him back on the sofa seemed like almost too difficult a task. The angel did it anyway.

“Thanks…” Crowley rasped, in pain again. Aziraphale’s heart squeezed.

“Don’t thank me,” he asked softly. It wasn’t something they did. Besides, he didn’t think he deserved it, all things considered. His eyes went back to the stack of books next to the armchair, and immediately misted over. He rubbed them again. “You can thank me later.” He said and stood up once more, heart filled maybe not with hope but with some new kind of desperation, and left the demon looking at his retreating form in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! Looks pretty hopeless, right? Sorry about that but I need the situation to be quite desperate if I want them to stop lying to themselves for one second :P  
> 
> 
> PLEASE take a moment to tell me what you think, every comment means so much to me!  
> 
> 
> Next chapter should be up on Tuesday, hope to see you then <333


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was bright outside again. Aziraphale stared at the window for several long minutes, unmoving. Another day, another chance, right? It didn’t feel like it. It only felt like they were one day closer to some deadline, it felt like Crowley had been leaking demonic essence for a day too long, it felt like the light was mocking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for all the comments, kudos, subscriptions and bookmarks!!! I'm blown away, I love you all so much :''')
> 
> Here's another chapter!!

It was bright outside again. Aziraphale stared at the window for several long minutes, unmoving. Another day, another chance, right? It didn’t feel like it. It only felt like they were one day closer to some deadline, it felt like Crowley had been leaking demonic essence for a day too long, it felt like the light was mocking him. Aziraphale reached over and turned the lamp off.

It felt like he’d been sitting in this armchair for much longer than one night and, for a moment, he didn’t think he could ever stand up again. He was tired, he knew. He’d never been one for sleeping, but he had an inkling that if he had lain down right now, he would’ve been out in a heartbeat. Strange, that. He shouldn’t be tired, he’d spent the last few hours sitting, hadn’t he?

He had been going through the books again, revisiting the fragments that described the nature of holy wounds. And he’d been thinking. The books weren’t totally useless, he supposed, he’d just been looking at them from a wrong angle. They’d definitely helped him to understand what he was dealing with a bit more. He’d been stupid, thinking he could find a way to heal a demon in an angelic book. He was quite certain he was the first angel who’d ever wanted to do that, so such a way had probably not been discovered, much less described. Yet.

Going through it all in his mind once more, he made his decision. It was the only thing he had come up with, and Crowley wasn’t going to get better if he didn’t do _something_. There was no room for caution, not now.

He glanced over at Crowley, as was his habit now. The demon was still asleep. He’d been sleeping for the past few hours, as far as the angel could tell, which was a good thing. With rest, his corporation was faring better. The wound had stopped bleeding, for one, and his body temperature was now only slightly higher than normal.

To be fair, the latter was probably not a good or natural thing. The books hadn’t told him how to help a demon with a holy wound, but they had given him a vague idea of what was going to happen. Crowley must have known that already, he’d seen it happen to others, after all. Losing their essence, losing energy, losing themselves, growing colder and colder until they were empty. At least it seemed like the process was painless, the ethereal part of it. So, it really was a good thing Crowley was resting – Aziraphale hoped that his body, at least, hurt a bit less now. The angel would be grateful for that small mercy. He would have prayed, but he didn’t dare – it was probably best to keep Heaven out of this entirely.

Aziraphale needed to wake him, though. With a great effort of will, he stood up and stretched slightly, moving his arms a bit to regain some feeling in them and shake off the heaviness that had settled over him over the night. He sat on the edge of the sofa again and took a moment to assess the state of the demon’s true form. He was scared to look, each time he did it, but he had to. Crowley’s essence was seriously diminished, but the demon was still there, firmly clinging to life. He still had not a small amount of energy left. Aziraphale released a breath he’d been holding. There was still time.

He gently shook the demon’s shoulder and Crowley flinched, but quickly relaxed again after the initial surprise.

“I’m dreadfully sorry to wake you, my dear,” Aziraphale rasped and had to clear his throat, which was uncomfortably tight now that he tried to speak. He really should drink something later, his mouth felt like cotton. Crowley’s brows twitched.

“Something wrong?” He asked, and his voice didn’t sound better than Aziraphale’s. The angel decided that was what needed to be addressed first.

“You need to drink something,” he announced, moving behind the demon to hold him up. Crowley was no longer burning to the touch, which was a relief, despite the implications. He even managed to drink an entire glass of water without spilling anything. Aziraphale laid him back down and looked at the empty glass in his hand briefly, then miracled it full again and downed it in a few gulps, before snapping it out of existence. Normally, he didn’t drink plain water. He would’ve made himself a cup of tea or some cocoa, but he couldn’t, not with Crowley like this, unable to drink it too. Not that the demon was much for non-alcoholic beverages, he usually declined any offer of them the angel would make, but still. This time, he didn’t have the option to accept, and Aziraphale felt drinking it himself would be like taking yet another choice from the demon.

“Was that why you woke me up?” Crowley asked. His voice was a bit stronger now, Aziraphale was glad to note, and it didn’t sound like he was complaining, simply prompting the angel to speak. Because he knew that wasn’t the reason, he had to know. Aziraphale shook his head.

“I want to try something,” he said slowly.

Crowley’s mouth tightened.

“What?” His voice was low, guarded. Aziraphale had known he’d react like this, and he also suspected how the demon would take what he was about to say. He braced himself.

“I want to try and seal the wound.”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest but Aziraphale held up his hand.

“Please, let me explain,” he asked. The demon grunted, but didn’t say anything more. “I’ve been thinking. I know I can’t perform any miracle on you, not in the state you’re in.”

Crowley hummed. That would kill him instantly, they both knew that.

“What if I didn’t do it directly, didn’t make the seal a part of you,” Aziraphale started, some of his desperation leaking into his voice, “but instead created the seal, separately, and _then_ put it in place to block the flow?” He looked at the demon, wondering if he felt the same cautious hope he did.

Crowley frowned, thinking, and Aziraphale felt the hope gain strength with every second he wasn’t arguing against the idea.

“It won’t work,” the demon finally declared. The angel felt like somebody pulled the rug from under him.

“And why not?” He demanded, crossly. Why was Crowley so sure again? He had spent the entire night thinking and this seemed like the only option they had left, but the demon rejected the idea right away? Aziraphale felt some of his anger from the day before coming back.

“Think about it, angel,” Crowley said with apology in his tone. Aziraphale hated how that sounded in his mouth. “The seal’s gonna be ethereal, not material. Ethereal objects aren’t… spiritually indifferent, ever.”

Aziraphale wasn’t stupid, he knew that. He wanted to say as much but Crowley wasn’t done.

“Same thing with a holy blade, really. It’s holy, that’s why it’s harmful to demons.”

“It’s harmful to anyone, angels included,” Aziraphale cut in. “It’s a spiritual blade, it can cut through the spirit.”

“I guess?” Crowley didn’t sound convinced. “But that’s not the point.”

“That’s the entire point!” exclaimed the angel, standing up. He started pacing in front of the sofa. “The divine nature of the wound stops a demon from healing it, but it’s not what kills them.”

“Yeah, but the divinity itself is very, very harmful to a demon,” Crowley pointed out, matter-of-factly, patiently, like he was explaining something Aziraphale should have known. Which he _did_. “I’d know, it’s stuck inside of me right now, and I can tell you that. It’s burning,” the demon continued. “And it doesn’t just stop me from healing the wound, I can’t reach my magic at all now. I’m cut off,” he finished, voice losing its previous strength all of a sudden.

Aziraphale’s face fell and he stopped in his tracks, facing the demon. He hadn’t known that. Yet another way in which Crowley was vulnerable at the moment. _And he still had come here_. Aziraphale’s heart squeezed painfully.

“A divine seal would be just as bad as putting that blade in my stomach again,” Crowley continued. “Just as bad as you using a miracle to try and heal it, if it even could be done.”

“It couldn’t,” Aziraphale admitted, because he knew as much now. The books were quite clear on that – it happened sometimes that an angel was wounded with a holy blade, and only a powerful miracle could heal them. It would take at least an archangel or two to do it, so Aziraphale couldn’t dream of healing Crowley himself, even if using angelic magic on him wouldn’t have outright killed him in this state.

“Still,” Aziraphale said, gentler now, “placing a divine seal on you _indirectly_ is not the same as sealing the wound _directly_ or using a miracle to heal it, and you know it.” He sat back down next to the demon and looked at him, at the sunglasses that reflected his own face back at him, wishing he could see the demon’s eyes for the umpteenth time and trying to project the confidence he didn’t really feel.

“Maybe it will be enough to kill you,” he conceded, heart hammering at having to utter those words at all. He didn’t think he’d admitted that possibility out loud before and it felt a little more real now that he’d said it. He forced himself to continue despite his throat constricting again, because there was still hope and he couldn’t allow himself to forget that. “But maybe… maybe you’ll be strong enough to survive it.” He could hear the plea in his voice and was sure Crowley could hear it, too. He was always very perceptive when it came to things like that, not that he would've ever admitted it. The demon was silent and Aziraphale held his breath. This was the last chance for him to live, didn’t he understand? It might kill him, yes, but…

“If we don’t do this, you won’t survive for sure,” he added, because it was true and they both knew it, and the angel had to stop pretending it wasn’t if he wanted Crowley to live. He could feel his heart start beating faster still, and his breaths begin to hitch. He angrily wiped tears off his face and he knew Crowley saw it. For once, he was glad. Maybe tears would help persuade the stubborn idiot.

“I really don’t think this will work, Aziraphale,” the demon said and the angel wanted to shake him. “It would only make Heaven ask you uncomfortable questions later.”

“I’ll think of something to tell them!” Aziraphale burst out, loud enough to outshout the voice that woke up in his mind at the mention of Heaven. “Don’t you worry yourself about that!” He was positively livid now. Didn’t Crowley have an ounce of self-preservation instinct? Did he _want_ to die?

“A seal placed on the wound indirectly would probably leak anyway,” Crowley added, and turned his face away as if he considered the discussion over. Aziraphale stared at the back of his head, and had to restrain himself from grabbing the demon’s shoulder to force him to face him again. He took a deep breath.

“Well, that’s yet another risk, yes, but it’s still worth it,” he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt.

Crowley mumbled something.

“What was that?” asked the angel, leaning over the lying demon.

“I said, _it’s not worth it_!” it was Crowley’s turn to yell, and Aziraphale jumped back as the demon’s face unexpectedly turned back towards him. He was breathing heavily, and Aziraphale felt slightly guilty about screaming earlier, but, frankly, the demon was being particularly obstinate and unreasonable. And… what had he said just now?

“How can you say that?” Aziraphale gasped, suddenly struggling to take a breath. He felt all the blood drain away from his face. He must have heard wrong, he must have. Did Crowley really value his own life so little?

Crowley sighed and pressed his hand against his forehead, wincing. Some distant part of the angel wanted to remind him to stay still so as not to strain the wound, but he stayed silent. He found he couldn’t say anything at all.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, that’s _not what I meant_ ,” Crowley made a face and huffed, clearly frustrated with himself. “I meant… Aziraphale, I…” He stopped and was silent for a while. The angel waited, feeling weak and scared, and like he should be angry but couldn’t, not about this.

Crowley sighed again.

“If you do this, there’s a big chance I won’t make it,” he said. Aziraphale nodded numbly, not trusting himself to speak just yet. “I think… it’s gonna be bad enough for you if you have to watch me die,” Crowley continued, so quietly that the angel had to lean down again to make out the words. “I don’t want you to have to deal with… with delivering the final blow, you know?”

Aziraphale stared at him for a long moment, at a loss for words. The demon turned his face away again. The angel felt his eyes prickle and he had to blink several times to stop the tears from forming.

“Crowley…” he started. He swallowed and started again. “My dear, listen to me.” He closed his eyes, it was easier to talk about this if he didn’t have to see the demon’s still form. “Believe it or not, I have actually thought about this. And it would be awful, I know it would.” It would have been more than awful, actually, it would’ve been so horrible that it almost didn’t bear thinking about. But he was willing to risk having to go through that if it meant he’d have a chance to save the demon. He took a breath and continued.

“And I know I’m not the best at… dealing with things.” It was hard to admit, but Crowley knew that anyway. That’s probably where his resistance had come from in the first place. “But I think I can do it, if it comes to that. Actually, I need you to understand that… what would be truly unbearable is if we didn’t try this at all. It would be much harder to deal with, certainly you can see that? Knowing there was something I could do but didn’t, and forever wondering if it would’ve worked. And never getting an answer. It would feel too much like giving up on you without a fight and, frankly, I don’t think I could take that.” He rubbed his forehead. He really was so very tired. “So, please, let me do this. Please.”

Aziraphale kept his eyes closed. He didn’t know what else to say, didn’t want to think too much about what he _had_ just said and what that meant. He also didn’t know what to make of the fact that Crowley apparently didn’t want to take this chance at living to spare him the guilt if it went wrong. He didn’t want to ponder over it too much, either, but he knew this was important. It was one of those things they never discussed, and pretended not to see. Aziraphale knew Crowley would never have said what he had if he hadn’t been pushed, so, in exchange, the angel had admitted to some things himself. The voice was starting to whisper in the back of his head again but he paid it no mind. He wouldn’t let himself be distracted, not now. He felt like they’d just crossed some invisible line. This was important.

The silence stretched for a few long minutes. Then, he heard Crowley move.

“Alright,” came the answer in a small voice. Aziraphale opened his eyes and saw the demon’s golden, slitted pupils, filled with regret and gratitude, and something else entirely, staring back at him.

*******

Crowley watched Aziraphale close the curtains and draw some sigils with chalk on the surface of the coffee table in preparation for whatever miracle he was about to perform. The angel kept adjusting his waistcoat and glancing over at him every few seconds, and Crowley was forcefully reminded that his eyes were now uncovered each time he did so, because Aziraphale’s own eyes widened and bored into his whenever he looked at him, a strange expression taking over his face. The demon realized that without the cover of the sunglasses it was harder to pretend he was calm about everything that was going on; it was also far more obvious that he was watching Aziraphale now, but that was a decision he’d made, and he didn’t regret it.

Earlier, the realization that Aziraphale hadn’t taken the glasses off himself had filled his chest with some indescribable feeling. The angel had allowed him to keep this last barrier, he must’ve known how much Crowley hated being vulnerable, and the demon was strangely touched.

He was still reeling from the angel’s words from several minutes ago. What Aziraphale had said… he’d actually used _words_ to say that he cared about him, even if he’d phrased it differently. Never in a million years had he expected to hear something like that. Crowley knew how much that must’ve cost the angel and he felt tears of gratitude threatening to spill over. He knew Aziraphale could see them now. Bless it. Still, he was kind of glad about that, actually. These were, in all probability, his last moments, and he wanted Aziraphale to know how much his words meant to him. How much the angel himself meant to him.

It was kind of difficult for the demon to admit just how much, but the events of the last day had deprived him of most pretenses. He’d come here, half expecting to be turned away at the door, or ignored on the sofa at best, too feverish and scared to trust that part of his heart that insisted the angel cared. And Aziraphale, with stitches, cold compresses, and unrelenting, stubborn will to help, had torn at his heart until it bled and made him admit that maybe it had been right, after all. And, by extension, it had made him face the fact that he cared about the angel, too. Always had, really, with all his being, but he’d been too scared of being hurt to ever fully admit it, even to himself.

He wanted to say as much. He wanted to say all of this because he knew he may not be able to do it later – or ever again, for that matter. They had never allowed themselves to wonder what they truly were to each other, wrapping up all their interactions in the pretense of business and making their jobs easier, being able to talk to someone familiar from time to time, someone who _understood_. They’d learnt to ignore any evidence that their meetings were sometimes too convenient to be accidental, brush away any sign that they cared about what happened to the other one, a mutual agreement never to talk about how wonderful it felt to see each other after years spent apart. It had kept them safe. And sane. All those centuries of unspoken things, of stolen moments, of dancing around each other and pretending.

They’d slip, every now and then, when the world got to be too much, saying all the unspoken things in all the ways but words, but they’d learnt to pretend not to notice, or at least never mention it. They both got so used to it that it seemed almost impossible to stop.

And they had a good reason for that. What good would saying anything do? They _were_ on opposite sides, after all, and that would never change. Even if they liked to forget about it sometimes, pretending otherwise would only hurt worse at the end. The end of the world, that was. It was bound to happen one day, and Crowley thought about it sometimes, as much as he tried not to. He supposed Aziraphale did, too. It helped to keep things in perspective.

But now, when Crowley could very well die in a few minutes, it suddenly felt like the biggest damn idiocy to keep this all up. To pretend they were still hereditary enemies at this point seemed like the most outrageous lie, one that even he, a demon, was loath to keep saying. To pretend they weren’t friends. Because that’s exactly what they were, Crowley knew it with sudden certainty. Or, rather, he’d known it for centuries, but was only now able to admit it. For the first time, after ages of unspoken things, Crowley felt the need to vocalize them. If he had to die, he wanted to do it, having told Aziraphale that he was the best friend he could have ever wished for. Once he’d admitted it to himself, he wanted to finally stop pretending and say it.

But he couldn’t do that, could he? It would be selfish. Selfish, and way too cruel. Maybe it would’ve made _him_ feel better, but it was very likely he’d be dead in a moment, so it didn’t really matter how he felt. He would die and wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore. But Aziraphale? He’d have to stay and live with it, and the angel couldn’t allow himself the luxury of admitting to being friends with a demon, not if he wanted to be able to go back to Heaven and look his superiors in the eye, not if he wanted to keep trying to be a good angel. Crowley knew how important that was for Aziraphale, and he couldn’t blame him, he knew what Heaven was like. Some friend he would’ve been, if he’d tried to use the excuse of being on his death bed to get the angel to suddenly admit something they both couldn’t say for six thousand years, not in words.

The important thing was that Crowley knew they were friends; he didn’t need any confirmation other than the angel’s actions of the last few millennia, and especially the last dozen of hours or so. No, the angel had said more than Crowley had ever hoped to hear, and that was enough. And the last thing Aziraphale needed was Crowley saying anything more. The angel needed to be able to keep up the lie, for his own sanity’s sake. And to soften the blow of the demon’s passing, he supposed. That, too.

He couldn’t even say thank you, no matter how much the angel deserved it. Thanking was a complicated thing. Besides, if it all went wrong, it would be much too cruel, too: thanking Aziraphale and then dying on him several moments later. He had a feeling the angel wouldn’t appreciate it, as it would only increase the guilt he’d feel.

So, he couldn’t really use words without making things worse for the angel. Perhaps that was for the best, though, he’d never been good with them. Neither of them had. They could do without words. They didn’t need to speak to communicate, that’s how they’d always operated. They were fluent in the unspoken, one was bound to get good at something after centuries of practice. And, if he didn’t say it out loud, Aziraphale could choose to pretend he didn’t hear it.

Which was why he’d taken off his sunglasses. If there was a way to communicate it all to the angel, that was it. There wasn’t much else he could do at the moment, no more daring rescues at the last minute, no more indulgent demonic miracles to make the angel happy. But he hoped it was enough, he hoped Aziraphale had understood all he’d been trying to say. It hadn’t been an empty gesture, it meant something. _I trust you_. He did. He didn’t want any more barriers between them now, other than the necessary ones they’d built over the millennia.

Judging by Aziraphale’s expression, the angel understood perfectly. He’d taken the glasses the demon had offered him with something akin to reverence, but hadn’t taken his eyes off Crowley’s for a long while. Now, the shades were hanging from the angel’s collar. Crowley stared at them when Aziraphale returned to sit down next to him on the sofa again, the sigils finally ready. The angel followed his eyes and stilled.

“I’ll give them back to you, later,” Aziraphale said, his hand half raised as if he’d meant to touch the glasses but stopped himself in time.

Crowley swallowed. He knew there was small chance of that, but he felt some tiny hope despite himself. Must be the angel’s influence.

“Okay,” he whispered.

They looked at each other for a moment, the space between them buzzing with unspoken things, as always. It felt familiar.

“Okay,” the angel whispered back. Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, preparing himself for what he was about to do.

Crowley kept his own eyes open. This might very well be the last thing he’d ever see. Aziraphale. Aziraphale, murmuring something under his breath, and moving his hands over the sigils, working on the spell. Aziraphale, doing his best to help him. It wasn’t a bad last sight, all things considered. He was a rather lucky demon. If there was one thing in his life he didn’t regret, it was knowing this wonderful idiot.

Aziraphale looked at him for a brief second, and in his face the demon could see trepidation, anxiety, and frail hope. Then, the angel placed one hand over his wound and Crowley screamed as pain erupted in his true form, his essence starting to burn with divinity. He saw Aziraphale’s expression morph into one of panic, and then everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *covers head with the ''Canon Compliant'' tag* they're going to be fine!!!
> 
> It was a difficult chapter for me to write, but I hope you liked it! Please, please tell me what you think! I'm new to this but I've discovered that comments are the best source of serotonin :D
> 
> Next chapter on Saturday, I hope to see you then! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale was shaking, face pressed into the sofa, limp and unable to even lift his head. His hand rested on the demon’s chest, feeling it rise and fall, the only thing keeping him from breaking down completely at this point. Crowley was still here. Aziraphale had been fast enough. He’d been fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR ALL THE SUPPORT!!! I love you guys <3333
> 
> (Just a quick warning for vomiting in the second section. And mild panic attacks.)
> 
> Enjoy!

Aziraphale was shaking, face pressed into the sofa, limp and unable to even lift his head. His hand rested on the demon’s chest, feeling it rise and fall, the only thing keeping him from breaking down completely at this point. Crowley was still here. Aziraphale had been fast enough. He’d been fast enough.

He’d been so stupid.

The seal hadn’t worked, not remotely, and he should have bloody well known that it wouldn’t. Crowley had been trying to tell him but had he listened? No. He’d been selfish, as always, thinking only of himself and how horrible not trying would have been. Well, he’d tried. He’d tried and it had nearly cost Crowley his life, it had nearly killed him. _He_ had nearly killed him. Like a good angel.

Aziraphale felt his chest constricting and he decided breathing was too much of a hassle for the moment. He didn’t need to do that anyway, why bother? It was only a habit, one he’d picked up by living in this corporation for so long. Crowley had, too, for which Aziraphale was grateful, as he could feel the demon breathe next to him. His heartbeat was weak and irregular but it was there. It was there.

It had been close.

Aziraphale should have _known_ , but he’d wanted to hope so desperately. He _had_ thought it a bit improbable that the demons trying to help others back then, after the Fall, hadn’t tried to seal the wounds. They must have. He knew they wouldn’t have been able to do it directly, no more than perform a demonic miracle on a holy wound to heal it. But they might have been able to do that indirectly, right? Just as he had done. He’d briefly hoped they simply hadn’t thought of that, but that had been terribly arrogant of him. He was just one angel, and many more demons must have done their best at the time. But then, if they _had_ tried to do that, it obviously hadn’t worked. He’d hoped it was because a demonic seal wasn’t strong enough to stop the essence flow from a holy wound, or that such a seal couldn’t hold, its nature unsuited to match divinity. Perhaps that had been the case. But perhaps the reason it hadn’t worked was the same as the reason it had failed this time: apparently, seals created indirectly didn’t work. They didn’t fit exactly and they leaked.

Crowley had been right. Maybe he’d known. Aziraphale should have listened to him. His chest was starting to burn and he forced himself to take a breath, but it didn’t help. He only began to shake more violently.

The thing was, he had thought of all of that and still decided to take the risk, because it could have worked. Divine seals were not demonic seals, _it could have worked_. He had to keep telling himself this, because the guilt was threatening to consume him. He couldn’t imagine what he would’ve done if Crowley had actually died because of this; he wouldn’t have been able to bear it, most likely. It turned out, Crowley had been right about this, too.

He focused on the barely perceptible and irregular movements of Crowley’s chest. He knew he should probably sit back up and assess the demon’s state, _he’s breathing and his heart is beating_ were not precise enough indicators. But he couldn’t. Try as he might, he couldn’t force himself to move.

He’d never lost so much energy so fast. He supposed it was only normal for him to feel like this after giving almost half of it away; frankly, he’d expected to pass out. It had been a knee-jerk reaction, the voice hadn’t had enough time to do as much as whisper; and it could yell at him all it wanted now, he was too tired to listen.

As soon as he’d pressed the seal to the wound, Crowley’s demonic essence had protested, shrinking away from the holiness and burning with it. It had been horrifying. Everything had happened so fast. One second, he’d been trying to put the seal in place, the next, Crowley had barely been there, his energy so depleted it’d been almost entirely gone, evaporated by the close proximity of so much holiness. And still, it had been leaking away, along with the burning essence, and it’d all been _for nothing_ , because it _hadn’t worked_ , the divine seal unable to do anything except for sucking the life out of the demon entirely.

Aziraphale had jerked the seal away as soon as he’d realized it wouldn’t stop the leakage, but it had been too late. Almost. Without thinking, Aziraphale had reached out and poured as much of his own energy as he could into the demon’s dying form, giving and giving from himself until he could feel Crowley stabilize. He’d ended up face down on the sofa not much after, or maybe even before he’d stopped the connection.

It had saved Crowley’s life, he knew. For a while longer, at least, because the gap was still there in his true form, and the borrowed energy was steadily, if slowly, oozing away. But he had caused such a severe depletion in the first place, hadn’t he? _Nobody had attempted this before, I had to try it,_ _it could have worked_ , he kept reminding himself as his grip on consciousness grew weaker and weaker until he could no longer hold onto it, and he drifted off to sleep.

*******

It was dark again when Aziraphale peeled his eyes open. He was lying in the exact same position he’d fallen asleep in, and his back was aching slightly from being bent like that for hours – days? The angel wasn’t sure how much time had passed. How long would it have taken for him to replenish enough energy to wake up on his own? He felt decidedly stronger, a far cry from before. He blinked once, twice, then jumped up, sudden terror gripping his throat. He threw out his senses, searching for Crowley’s presence, hands flying towards the demon’s heart, desperate, until he felt a heartbeat, felt Crowley, weak but alive, _still alive_ , against all odds.

He slumped again and put his head in his hands. Crowley could have died while he’d been sleeping. The thought almost paralyzed him, and the relief of it being untrue didn’t do much to chase the terror away.

God, he couldn’t take this anymore. He honestly, truly, couldn’t go on like this, he just wanted this to be over, he wanted to rest, he wanted to _rest_.

The realization of what he’d wished for was like a punch to the gut and he leaned to the side and retched. After he wiped his lips off and miracled the carpet clean again, he went over to the kitchen and thoroughly rinsed his mouth. He leaned against the sink, breathing heavily. He’d never thrown up before, not in six thousand years. A definitely unpleasant experience. He splashed some water onto his face and tried to steady his breaths. After several moments, he managed to calm down a bit and, bracing himself, he returned to the backroom, turning on the lamp on his way to the sofa.

As he sat back down next to the unconscious demon, he recalled doing the same so many times on the evening Crowley had come and said he’d die. He hadn’t believed him, then. He’d denied it for so long, been arrogant enough to imagine he could think of a way to stop the inevitable, even if no one had done it before. It felt like it’d been ages ago. But it couldn’t have been more than one or two days earlier, he knew, because Crowley wouldn’t have survived longer in his condition.

Aziraphale took a breath and closed his eyes, then reached out to assess the demon’s state more accurately than the _he’s still alive_ from before.

Crowley was weak. His essence was so depleted, what with the holiness of the wound still eating away at it, that Aziraphale wondered with concern if it would ever be able to fully heal and return to its previous state. His mind went blank for a second as he realized what the answer to that question was. He kept forgetting. The demon wouldn’t heal, not ever, not when he was about to die. He looked at the gap in Crowley’s true form and watched demonic essence slowly oozing away through it, knowing there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. He had no more ideas. Along with his essence, Crowley kept losing energy. There was so little of it left, and more was leaking than the demon was able to replenish. That, at least, was something Aziraphale could help with, like he had before. He had plenty of energy himself, after sleeping for God knew how long.

He knew it was mostly pointless, because no matter how much he would give, it was bound to leak in a matter of hours. But hours were more than minutes, and so he’d take it. The thought that Crowley would never wake up again if he didn’t do this was enough to cut off any protests the voice was trying to make.

He placed his hand on the demon’s forehead and almost jerked it away when he felt how cold it was. _He’s still alive_ , he reminded himself, and poured as much energy as he could into the still form on the sofa before he started to feel dizzy. He couldn’t allow himself to fall asleep, not again. He felt Crowley gain strength and stabilize, and Aziraphale swayed slightly, severing the connection, head feeling like it was filled with helium.

Crowley stirred and, after a moment, the demon’s golden eyes opened a fraction and swiped around the room, unfocused. Finally, they rested on Aziraphale’s face and opened properly, recognition glistening in the slitted pupils, and the angel let out a breath he’d been holding.

“Hi,” the demon rasped and Aziraphale felt like crying with relief. He’d thought he’d never hear that voice again.

“Hello there,” he replied hoarsely, the words catching in his throat. He could feel tears forming in his eyes already.

Crowley watched him for a moment and Aziraphale watched him back, some indescribable sensation filling his chest as relief, joy, fear, and sorrow struggled to prevail inside of him.

“Yeah, let’s not try that again,” Crowley grunted finally, wincing, and the angel couldn’t stop himself and laughed wetly, tears escaping from his eyes. Perhaps he looked a bit mad, but he didn’t care.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale managed to choke out between sobs that the laughter had turned into. Because he was. God, he was, he was so damn sorry, he couldn’t say it enough. Crowley frowned slightly, eyes filling with worry. Aziraphale hated it.

“Don’t be,” the demon said, just like he’d done on the first night he’d spent lying on the sofa, and it only made the angel cry harder. He didn’t think he could stop if he tried but, to be honest, he didn’t even try, he had no strength to.

Crowley reached out his hand to lay it on Aziraphale’s arm, just like he had before, too. He was a bit warmer to the touch now but still cold, too cold.

“It didn’t work, but hey, I’m still alive, alright?” His tone was soaked with urgency. Aziraphale supposed he wanted to get him to stop crying, and he understood why, he really did, but he was powerless to do anything about it at the moment.

“I’m still here, you didn’t kill me,” the demon continued and Aziraphale honestly had no idea how that was supposed to be reassuring. It was anything but, because he _could have_ , he _almost had_.

“You’re still dying,” he rasped, doing his best to pull himself together because now Crowley looked like he wanted to start crying, too, and the angel wouldn’t have it.

They were quiet for a while again, in which Aziraphale managed to somewhat get a grip on himself, but the tears continued to flow down his cheeks. He decided to ignore them, for now. He’ll deal with them later.

Crowley took a breath.

“Yes,” he admitted, and Aziraphale’s heart missed a beat, even though _he’d known that_. Stupid heart. The demon locked eyes with him.

“But it’s not your fault,” he said firmly, emphatically, as if he needed to make sure the angel remembered that. Aziraphale knew it was true, logically, but it didn’t make it feel any less false. He took a deep breath and did his best to smile. He’d deal with it on his own. Like he’d said earlier, he’d never been good at it, but he would have to try. Crowley smiled back at him, the expression weak but genuine, and the angel felt his own strained smile morph into something more sincere. Yes, Crowley didn’t need Aziraphale’s problems on top of everything. The angel needed to be strong now. He’d deal with all of it on his own, later.

*******

Crowley was cold. He’d always hated to be cold, but this time it felt even worse than usual. It was a different kind of cold from when he’d still had a fever, he almost missed that one. This kind felt too much like emptiness, spreading inside of his being and taking up the space where _he_ used to be, and it frightened him. He didn’t want to die like this.

He closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry. It was true, he didn’t want to die. And if he had to, he’d rather be warm as it happened. He’d rather be himself and lucid as he went. But there was nothing he could do about it, short of quickening the process himself, but he’d never do that, never. It went against everything he’d tried to live by, and giving that up would’ve been no better than dying without consciousness.

He didn’t want the angel to see him like this, too. He knew what it was going to look like, and his heart protested weakly each time he remembered that Aziraphale would have to witness it, as much as he was glad he wouldn’t be alone. He wanted to be able to make some witty remark as his last words, maybe crack a smile out of Aziraphale one last time or even laugh with the angel before the inevitable happened. He knew that wasn’t how it would go. It was going to be a rather cold goodbye.

He was cold already, but not as much as he’d expected to be, not after the fiasco with the seal. He still wasn’t sure how he’d survived that one, but it didn’t matter much, he’d be dead soon anyway. He was indescribably happy he hadn’t died, though, for Aziraphale’s sake. The angel had been shaken enough at Crowley’s sudden deterioration (which, in turn, had shaken _him_ to the core, he still couldn’t believe just how much Aziraphale _cared_ ), the demon didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if the seal had killed him. He didn’t have to, though. He was still alive and he hoped Aziraphale understood that whatever was going to happen, the angel was not to blame for any of it.

He knew it wasn’t very likely, he’d seen Aziraphale’s expression. He knew him quite well by now, he liked to think, and he had a feeling the angel was going to have to deal with guilt, no matter how much he didn’t deserve to. And it was all because Crowley had been stupid enough to come here in the first place, inadvertently dragging him into this mess. The demon’s heart ached at the thought, his own guilt eating at what was still left of him.

And there was less and less left of him, he could feel it. He didn’t think he could even open his eyes again, now that he’d closed them. Everything seemed a little more distant, even his own corporation didn’t hurt as much as it had, the burning essence also only an indistinct sensation now. It was probably okay if he rested for a bit. It couldn’t hurt, surely.

“Hey, no, no, don’t sleep,” a sharp voice that was much too loud for his dazed mind brought him back, and he grimaced. Why wouldn’t Aziraphale let him be? The sooner he slept, the sooner it would all be over with, surely he knew that?

“Open your eyes, my dear, please,” Aziraphale said with some desperation and Crowley had to obey, hard as it was. He really couldn’t deny the angel much; he’d never been able to, now that he thought about it.

As he lifted his eyelids with some difficulty, he realized Aziraphale was sitting much closer than he’d expected. He must’ve moved his armchair so that it was right beside the sofa now, Crowley hadn’t noticed when that’d happened. There was no book on the angel’s lap, no cup of cocoa on the coffee table nearby. Nothing to distract himself with. Crowley’s heart did a funny thing. This was it, wasn’t it? And Aziraphale was going to go through it with him, right here beside him, his full attention on the demon. Gratitude overfilled his heart and spilled from his eyes, sinking into the material under his head.

“There you are,” Aziraphale’s voice was gentle now, soothing. The angel reached over and wiped his cheeks with some cloth, and Crowley’s eyelids started to droop once more.

“Don’t,” Aziraphale said, desperate again. “Keep them open, please, for me,” his friend pleaded. _His friend_. Crowley’s heart squeezed. He could do it. For him. He forced his heavy eyelids to remain where they were. Aziraphale rewarded him with a grateful smile.

“You’re doing good,” he whispered softly.

Crowley tried to smile back but didn’t think he managed to do it convincingly. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, though.

“You can’t sleep, okay?” asked the angel, blue eyes boring into his. He knew that. Or, rather, he knew what would happen when he did fall asleep, he’d probably never wake up again. But it was inevitable, and he was tired, _so tired_ , and, if it was going to happen anyway, he didn’t understand why he should fight it so hard.

But, for whatever reason, Aziraphale wanted him to fight, so fight he would. He could do it. For him.

“Talk to me,” the angel prompted, obviously trying to help him stay conscious. He had to admit it would’ve been a good idea, if it hadn’t been so hard to open his mouth.

“What d’ you want me t’ talk ‘bout?” he managed, hoarsely. His throat was tight.

Aziraphale hummed.

“Anything you want,” came the answer.

Crowley thought for a moment. Anything he wanted? He wanted so many things. He wanted to sleep and he wanted for the cold to go away. He wanted to be able to stand up, or maybe just sit up, or at least think clearly, he wanted to feel whole again. He wanted to tell Aziraphale how important he was to him. He wanted to go back in time and somehow prevent this whole mess from ever happening. He wanted to cry.

“Dear, how are you feeling?”

He looked into the angel’s eyes, which were filled with anxiety and tears and he wanted Aziraphale never to cry again. He knew the odds of that were very slim at best, though, and he was probably going to be the reason for many of the angel’s tears in the near future. The thought pained him.

Aziraphale was still looking at him, the tears threatening to spill. He had asked him a question, hadn’t he? Crowley should try and answer.

“Peachy.”

Oh damn, he’d done it again. Aziraphale shouldn’t cry, not because of him.

“Not your fault,” he rasped, because he needed the angel to know this, needed him to stop crying.

Aziraphale looked away for a moment, and Crowley felt his eyes start to close again. He was just so tired.

The angel’s eyes snapped back to him in alarm.

“Hey, none of that, just talk to me. If not mine, whose fault is it, then? Who did this? You never told me.”

Crowley frowned. He hadn’t? He was pretty sure he had, he must have. He’d wanted to tell the angel as soon as he’d managed to get to the bookshop… His eyes widened, eyelids no longer protesting. He suddenly felt much more awake.

“Oh, I didn’t-” he rasped, panting, trying and failing to lift himself up on his elbow.

Aziraphale stopped him with gentle hands, but his face was alarmed.

“What? What is it?”

“An angel did this,” the demon said with effort, and his friend nodded, apparently having figured out as much. How could he forget to tell Aziraphale? Heaven could ask him questions later, he needed to know. “I went to do the job you asked me to do some time ago… they must have gone there to see you, expected me to be you.”

The angel stilled, his face suddenly turning white as a sheet. He looked like he’d even stopped breathing, and perhaps he had.

“What?” he said weakly. Crowley furrowed his eyebrows again, trying to gather his thoughts. This was important, he remembered it was. Then he took in the angel’s wide eyes and he rushed to explain, forcing his mouth to cooperate.

“No, they noticed it wasn’t you, they didn’t want to attack you,” he reassured quickly, but it did nothing to chase that look away from Aziraphale’s face.

“But they attacked you… because they came to see _me_?” The angel repeated, tone carefully blank.

Crowley exhaled loudly.

“I guess that’s why they came, I don’t know,” he said. But that wasn’t important. “I finished the job before they came an’ I think they thought it was _you_ who’d done it, an’ that then I’d come and attacked you or somethin’.” Speaking took a lot of effort but he needed to say this. He supposed Aziraphale’s method of keeping him awake by talking was working, he felt much more lucid now that he was trying to focus.

“Jus’… you should know the job’s done and tha’ they saw me there, so tha’ you know wha’ to say when they ask somethin’.” Crowley continued, slurring more and more.

Suddenly, it occurred to him how dumb he’d been. How utterly stupid. His breath hitched as his chest tightened in panic. If that angel had thought Crowley had attacked Aziraphale, wouldn’t he come and check up on him? To make sure he was alright? And he’d forgotten to tell Aziraphale anything, the angel hadn’t been prepared, what would have happened if someone had come to the bookshop and seen Crowley? What if someone was still going to visit? He was still here, how would Aziraphale explain that? His mouth felt dry.

“Oh no,” he gasped. “They could come here,” his eyes frantically searched out Aziraphale’s. The angel still wasn’t moving, eyes wide but unseeing. He didn’t seem to have heard, and Crowley needed him to _listen_.

“Angel.” He did his best to speak louder but Aziraphale was as if in a trance. Desperate to gain his friend’s attention, he summoned whatever strength he had left and reached out to grab his wrist. Aziraphale flinched and Crowley felt a pang in his heart but at least it had worked. The angel gasped, taking in a series of quick breaths. Crowley released him, unable to keep his hold much longer. His hand felt colder than it had before.

“Angel, listen, they could come here t’ see if you’re okay,” the demon said urgently. He had no idea what he should do now. He should never have come to the bloody bookshop in the first place, the angel would have figured something out if they’d asked him any questions. He shouldn’t have come. If he hadn’t had a fever, if his brain had been working properly, he wouldn’t have. He’d only made the angel feel guilty and miserable, and brought potential danger to his bookshop.

But, the thing was, his feverish brain hadn’t even questioned his choice to come here; it hadn’t even been a choice, really. He’d just known that if he had to die, he wanted to do it here, where nobody would look at him with hatred, even if the angel might complain about him dripping blood on his carpet. He hadn’t really thought about it much, he’d only known he needed to get somewhere safe, and the bookshop was the only place he knew that _felt_ safe. It was relatively new and he hadn’t been here that many times, but it was _Aziraphale’s_. He’d wanted to see Aziraphale one last time.

He hadn’t been thinking. Or, rather, he’d been thinking only about himself, as always. He should have considered it, he should have known how much it would hurt the angel, he should have thought about how dangerous it would be for him if Crowley was here – especially in his current state, when he couldn’t just disappear when they heard someone approaching the shop. The fever must have been higher than he’d realized if he’d thought coming here had been an acceptable thing to do.

Granted, if he hadn’t come, he’d probably have discorporated without the stitches. He hadn’t known that, but the flesh wound had turned out to be quite more serious than he’d realized. Still, he should have noticed and sutured it himself. Or he should have let himself discorporate and die in Hell, it would’ve been better than bothering the angel who actually cared whether or not he lived, and who could actually be harmed because of Crowley’s mere presence at his home. He felt his gut churning. This was the angel’s _home_. A place Aziraphale had been so eager and so happy to finally set up, one he’d said he felt like staying at forever. His safe haven. And Crowley had to come and ruin it with his death. Would the angel be able to relax on the sofa ever again, knowing the demon had breathed his last on it?

He’d been a fool thinking Aziraphale wouldn’t let him in, either, he knew as much now. It wasn’t part of the Arrangement, there was no way for the angel to help so he wasn’t obliged to invite him in, but he should have known better than to doubt him. Aziraphale deserved better. He’d told himself that the angel would simply let him die peacefully but he supposed that, even as feverish as he’d been, deep down he’d known it was a lie. Of course Aziraphale would do all he could to help. No, this was entirely on Crowley, who’d just barged in here without thinking, bringing so much mess and hurt and danger with him.

Maybe there was still a way he could fix it.

“I should go,” he gasped out, panic overwhelming him. The angel looked at him without comprehension. He was probably panicking, too, as he well should. They’d been lucky for the last couple of days, nobody had come, but that could change at any moment. He should try to leave the bookshop, that really was the least he could do. If he managed to get to some street corner, maybe nobody would bother him before he died. And the angel would be safe.

With a herculean effort, the demon managed to lift himself slightly on his elbows, breaths coming out in heavy pants, the flesh wound tearing at his stomach with fresh pain. He could feel his resolve weaken with each passing second. There was no way he could even stand up, much less reach the door. But he didn’t think Aziraphale had it in him to kick him out, even if letting him stay was so dangerous, so he had to go himself. He took a deep breath and braced himself to try and sit up properly when he felt gentle but strong hands guiding him back onto the sofa. He gasped in protest but Aziraphale shushed him.

“Where on Earth do you think you’re going?” the angel chided softly, but there was sorrow and understanding in his tone now. Crowley’s face scrunched up in confusion. If Aziraphale understood the danger, why would he stop him? His brain was foggy again and he felt tears of fear and panic and frustration prick at his eyes.

“Please, don’t move,” the angel asked in a tiny, strangled voice. “It’s alright.”

But it _wasn’t_ alright, didn’t he get it?

“Angel, it’s not safe,” he managed to stutter out as he tried to get Aziraphale to let go of his shoulders so that he could try to sit up again. The angel’s grip was light but he just had so little strength left.

“Let me worry about it, okay?” Aziraphale asked, voice impossibly soft and filled with some nameless emotion. “They won’t come, they would’ve done that already if they really wanted to. And if they do, I’ll take care of it. You just rest, I’m here.”

The angel took the demon’s hand in his and, despite himself, Crowley felt all the fight leave him, trust, relief and gratitude taking up its place in his mind. Aziraphale was probably right, if Heaven had wanted to check up on him, they would’ve done so right away; they’d never liked to wait much. He felt tears gather up in his eyes again, but this time they were good tears.

“Thank you,” he gasped, because even though he knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t _not_ say it. He closed his eyes, unable to keep them open even a second longer.

Aziraphale didn’t let go of his hand. Crowley had never thought he’d be able to die like this.

That was the last thought he had before darkness claimed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh yeah... So, who had thought the seal was going to work? I'm sorry about that! But Crowley had his realizations in the last chapter, Aziraphale is much better at lying to himself tho, the situation needed to be Just A Little Bit more desperate for him to come to his own conclusions. Here's to hoping he'll reach them soon!
> 
> PLEASE tell me what you think!! Your comments make me SO happy, you have no idea <333
> 
> See you on Tuesday!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale held the demon’s hand and did his best not to think about anything. He couldn’t fall apart, not now. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH THANK YOU for all the comments!! Your response to this fic has been so generous, I'm so grateful :''')
> 
> Here's chapter 5! Only two chapters left, we're slowly getting to the end of this story <3

Aziraphale held the demon’s hand and did his best not to think about anything. He couldn’t fall apart, not now. Not yet.

It was indescribably hard, though, and he kept failing, because the implications of _they must have gone there to see you_ were difficult, impossible to ignore. It felt like being punched in the face, repeatedly, until he bled, or like having a knife twisting in his guts. It made his heart stop beating each time he let his mind wander, because his thoughts didn’t stop screaming, loud and accusing: _you did this_.

He thought he might be going a bit mad, actually. It was probably just as well. Just as well, because it’d turned out it _had_ been his fault, after all, all of it. And how could he _possibly_ begin to deal with something like that, ever? Going mad would be a mercy, at this point.

He’d known the Arrangement was dangerous. He’d known it was a risk. But he’d agreed to it anyway, and where had that led them?

He looked at Crowley’s still face and felt his own scrunch up with guilt. _My fault_.

Crowley had always been optimistic, always insisting nobody would find out, always pushing, always irresponsible, carefree. But Aziraphale _had known_ , he had known it was unwise, had always been scared Crowley would get hurt one day because of it. He should have trusted his instincts back then, should have been the reasonable one, should have protected the demon who had been so sure he was safe. He should have said no. He should have prevented this. This was on him.

The voice turned out to have been right about that one thing, at least, and, for the first time, Aziraphale wished he’d listened to it. Crowley wouldn’t have to die if he had.

He had a fleeting thought that they would have to break the Arrangement if it had got Crowley hurt, but he caught himself a second later. Crowley being dead meant no more Arrangement, whether they wanted it to continue or not. He almost started laughing at himself – definitely going mad, then.

And the reason for Crowley’s current situation wasn’t even that they’d been discovered, like he’d always feared, he realized with a detached surprise. No, Heaven was none the wiser and _Aziraphale_ was still safe. The angel closed his eyes briefly, the guilt almost too much to bear. They should have suffered the consequences of their foolishness together, why was he being let off the hook?

Still, he was glad the angels hadn’t found out, because he doubted he’d be able to sit here with Crowley if they had. He was grateful they hadn’t come to check on him, too, he didn’t know what he would’ve done otherwise. Perhaps for the first time, Aziraphale was all too glad to have been neglected. He supposed it was possible his rationalizations wouldn’t have been enough to persuade his superiors to see things his way – and even if they would’ve been enough, somehow, the angels would’ve probably just said that nothing could be done and thrown Crowley out. Or speeded up his death, finishing the job. Crowley would’ve died scared and surrounded by enemies, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have been even allowed to hold him through it.

He wasn’t really surprised that Heaven hadn’t come, though, and he knew they wouldn’t come here now, not after so much time had passed; he’d probably slipped their minds already. It was just the way it was, always had been. Aziraphale had always told himself that they just trusted him enough to take care of himself, that they simply thought him capable enough an angel, worthy of his position as the Guardian of Earth. It wasn’t like they’d just forget about him, they would’ve certainly reacted if he’d failed to send in his monthly paperwork, and they’d check up on him then. It was alright, they were really busy up there. Maybe it hadn’t even occurred to them something could have happened to him.

Or, what was even more probable, the angel who’d stabbed Crowley had failed to even mention that Aziraphale might have been in danger, focusing on bragging about what they’d done instead. Aziraphale wondered briefly why they’d even had a holy blade on them if they’d simply come to inspect his work. It was probably to be expected, though, where else would an angel need such a defense? Surely, Heaven was safe, as opposed to Earth. Aziraphale knew he himself was supposed to have a celestial blade on him at all times, he just happened not to have it anymore. Not that his superiors knew.

Still, the angel who’d stabbed Crowley had come prepared, and he hadn’t hesitated to do his duty, as a good angel should. Aziraphale was glad he didn’t know who it was, he didn’t think he could ever look them in the eye if he had, he hoped he’d never find out. He would have to come back to Heaven when this was all over, after all, no matter how much he didn’t feel like ever going back there. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel guilty at the thought.

Maybe Heaven _had_ realized he could’ve been in danger but simply hadn’t bothered to react? He wouldn’t have blamed them. He’d failed them many times, he knew; he could no longer pretend that he hadn’t, or that he wasn’t failing them at this very moment. Some distant part of his mind was dimly aware that he should be out and about performing miracles and actually doing his job, but it seemed like the least important thing in the world right now. Maybe the archangels would get angry, maybe they’d even dole out some punishment, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Honestly, at this point, he supposed he actually did deserve punishment, so if that happened, he wouldn’t even protest. He was watching over a dying demon, after all, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty about that, either.

He looked down at Crowley’s still face. He might have failed Heaven, but he’d failed the demon, too, and, inexplicably, it felt so much more damning. Unforgivable.

He knew Crowley didn’t blame him. He knew. The demon wouldn’t have told him about how he’d got stabbed if it had occurred to him how Aziraphale would take it. Crowley had always tried to protect him like that, the angel realized with a fresh pang of guilt, which only served to make everything so much worse, so much more unbearable. If it wasn’t for him, the demon would be safe and sound, causing mischief and low-grade evil – but instead he’d decided to fraternize with the enemy. Aziraphale could just as well have wielded the holy blade that’d wounded him, and Crowley had _thanked him_. The angel felt sick again, but managed to resist the urge to retch with a few deep breaths. Breathing hurt at this point, strangely, but it helped somewhat. He needed to pull himself together, one last time.

Just a couple of hours left and he could allow himself to fall apart. Like he kept remining himself, he’d deal with all of it later – he’d try, at least. This was about Crowley, though, not him, so he would focus on the demon. While he still could. Aziraphale looked at the hand in his, feeling how cold it was, letting it ground him, and tried to ignore everything else. Crowley was more important now.

Not that there was much he could do for the demon, except for feeding him energy, which wouldn’t help with anything, not really, not in the long run. Energy wasn’t the only thing he was losing and, once his essence was gone, Crowley himself would cease to exist. Only a couple of hours left, at best. And Aziraphale would sit here, holding his hand, because he needed to, he wouldn’t let him face death alone, even if Crowley wasn’t conscious enough to know it. He’d be with him until the end.

Maybe there wasn’t much point in giving his energy to the demon if he would die anyway. But, even though he wasn’t sure why, Aziraphale knew that as long as he could fight for Crowley’s life, even with no hope of success, he would. He couldn’t just… let go. Couldn’t just let him die if he still had any strength left to prevent it for a second longer. Crowley would do the same for him, he was weirdly certain of that.

Crowley’s frantic explanations and his attempt to leave ( _to keep him safe_ , Aziraphale thought with a pang in his chest, and held the demon’s hand a little tighter) had drained him of most of the energy reserves the angel had provided him with, and he was drifting on the verge of consciousness. Aziraphale kept pouring as much of his energy into the demon’s still form as he could without falling asleep himself, a tiny, steady stream of it flowing through their clasped hands – enough to keep Crowley alive, but not to wake him up again. Maybe it was for the best. Crowley looked peaceful, and he deserved to die peacefully, at least.

Aziraphale kept holding on, feeling like the connection was the only thing keeping him here, too. He’d hold on for as long as he could. He couldn’t let go, and so he wouldn’t. He’d deal with the consequences later.

*******

He was cold. Freezing. His abdomen still hurt, but he barely noticed now; the cold that permeated every inch of his being proved to be quite a distraction. It was hard to focus on a single thought; many of them were dancing in the forefront of his mind, but each time he managed to get a hold on one, it slipped away after a few moments, leaving only vague impressions in its place. It was confusing. He wasn’t sure where he was, exactly, only that it was somewhere safe.

He could feel something – someone, his mind whispered – holding his hand. And the hand that held his was warm, so _warm_ , and it was probably the only thing that was still keeping him here, anchoring him. He tried to return the grip, silently begging it not to let go. He didn’t know what would happen if it disappeared – he’d probably disappear with it, that seemed like a logical conclusion. Every other part of him felt like it was gone already, and, without the hand in his, he supposed there would be nothing left. It was reassuring, in a way. As long as the warm hand held him, he’d be safe.

He could feel himself growing more and more empty, as if there was less and less of what made him _him_ , the place slowly being taken up by the icy-cold void. He tried to focus on the hand, and the warmth it pushed into his body. Warmth and strength, and something that kept the emptiness at bay, allowing him to take breath after breath.

He knew the hand was safe, just as he knew the place was safe. He didn’t know how, he just did, as if it was one of the basic truths that no chill could tear out of him. It felt good, to be sure of this one thing, at least. It helped to feel like he was still there. It helped to feel anything at all. It was getting more and more difficult to feel anything except for the cold, cold, cold.

*******

Crowley hadn’t moved much since he’d lost consciousness, his body only twitching from time to time, and he’d stopped moving at all not long after. So had Aziraphale. It felt like he’d been sitting here for years, even though, logically, he knew it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours at most. Probably even less. The angel had lost track of time, he felt like his body had turned to stone at some point, and he’d remain like this forever, unmoving, holding the demon’s hand, the tears that kept steadily falling down his face the only indicator that he was still alive. Funny thing, tears, there didn’t seem to be an end to them. He’d used to fight them so much, now he’d almost stopped noticing them.

Aziraphale tried not to think about the universe without Crowley in it. It would be just... empty. Wrong. He’d never have thought he’d grow so accustomed to the demon lurking at his side, his presence the only thing he could always count on. Crowley had been the only constant, the only familiar face during his time on Earth, always there, in every age and every millennium, and to continue his work here without the demon was unthinkable. It wasn’t how it was supposed to be, and the angel didn’t think he could ever come to accept it. He didn’t think he wanted to.

They’d shared so many adventures, spent countless moments together, drunk more alcohol than Aziraphale was comfortable to admit, and laughed more with each other than the angel ever had with anyone else. There had always been the two of them. Others didn’t understand, couldn’t possibly understand, ever, what Earth was like, what _humanity_ was like, how it was full of so much light and so much darkness, and how it all sank into one’s very core, changing them forever. They were both different, he and Crowley, he supposed; they were both something else than their respective superiors wanted them to be, and that brought them close, made them more similar to each other than to the rest of their kinds. He was only noticing it now. Or maybe, he was only now able to admit it.

He kept staring at Crowley’s still face and couldn’t help remembering all the instances when the demon had been a bit like this, before. He could recall quite a few times when Crowley had ended up a bit worse for wear, and, for whatever reason, couldn’t miracle the wound away. They’d both agreed not to use their magic on each other if the situation wasn’t too dire, out of fear that their head offices could track it down one day. So, several times, Aziraphale had found himself sitting next to a hurt demon, trying to help with more mundane means. They’d stitched each other’s wounds, changed bandages, or even watched over the other’s sleep, however uneasy it’d made them at times. It was all part of the Arrangement.

This was so much different. This wasn’t like anything else Aziraphale had to face before. He was no longer uneasy, like back then. He wasn’t anxious, or worried now. No. This was something else, something much, much worse, and something much more final.

He couldn’t remember how he’d managed to be so distant back then. He couldn’t remember why he hadn’t held Crowley’s hand each time something like that had happened. He couldn’t imagine not holding it now.

He kept holding on. It seemed like the only thing that still mattered.

*******

The hand was still there. He was still there. He was still there. Not much longer, he knew, but for now, he was still there. That counted for something, right? He was there, and so was the hand, and he was safe. For now, he was safe.

*******

Aziraphale could feel himself growing more and more numb. He supposed he should be alarmed, this wasn’t how he was supposed to behave, but he found he didn’t care at the moment about what he should or shouldn’t do. And, well, that was new. It was just another thing he would have to deal with later, when his mind started working properly again. For now, he only kept duly noting his discoveries.

Rationalizations weren’t enough, he knew, not for this, not for the way he felt at the moment. How would he rationalize holding a dying demon’s hand? How would he argue for wrapping him up in a blanket when he was no longer of use to Heaven? How would he explain the tears he couldn’t stop, the hours he’d spent unmoving at his Enemy’s deathbed? He couldn’t. The realization was scary and so were its implications, but that was the way things were and he could no longer lie to himself. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t care when he looked at the demon’s still form and felt his heart squeeze in pain. He could no longer pretend, and pretending was all that had been protecting him from his own vicious mind, and the voice, and the guilt of not being what he should be, and he had no idea how he’d manage to cope with all of that when the numbness was gone and it all finally caught up with him.

He kept staring at Crowley’s face, feeling emptiness spreading inside him, just like it was slowly consuming the demon. Maybe he’d stay this numb after Crowley was gone? That would be a mercy in itself, probably. He wouldn’t have to face the loss and pain and loneliness, and wonder what it meant that he felt them at all. He wouldn’t have to deal with not being a proper angel after all. He wouldn’t have to deal with anything anymore, which was just as well, because Aziraphale really didn’t think he could actually do that, ever again. Not with Crowley gone.

He’d never thought he’d be able to admit it, even to himself. But the last couple of days had brought many revelations, and Aziraphale kept discovering new things that he’d been desperately trying not to see, things he’d tried to remain ignorant of, but had learned anyway. The demon’s hand was icy-cold in his, so much that the angel’s own fingers were freezing, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t let go. And now, when Crowley’s time was almost up, he could finally admit to himself why, because it didn’t matter much anymore, pretending was over.

Aziraphale couldn’t let go, because Crowley was the only person who had ever allowed him to be himself, the only person who actually cared about what happened to him, the only person who was always there when he needed it. Someone who clearly enjoyed his company, who actually liked him, accepted him the way he was. And, despite being impossibly ridiculous and at times downright infuriating, the demon was the only person Aziraphale actually liked spending time with, the only person he missed after not seeing him for a while. The only person he really trusted. The only person he could call his friend.

That was the truth, whatever that meant for him. Crowley was his friend, his best and dearest and only friend, and that friend was dying, and Aziraphale would take his place if he could.

His eyes widened in shock, heart missing a beat at the thought. It was true, wasn’t it? His breathing quickened as his mind scrambled to find some evidence to contradict this new information, prove it wrong, but it was true, Aziraphale knew it was, and it was more scary than anything else he’d discovered since this whole mess had begun. It was true, he would take the demon’s place if he could.

Then his breathing suddenly stopped when he realized he could actually do that, too.

*******

The voice was raging in his mind, screaming louder than it ever had before, and Aziraphale couldn’t move, as if paralyzed. He couldn’t do this, it was against everything he’d been told, against everything he knew Heaven expected of him. An angel couldn’t risk so much, especially not for the Enemy, no amount of rationalizing and listing off reasons would change that. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_. But if he didn’t… he knew what was going to happen.

 _Let it happen!_ The voice yelled.

Aziraphale bristled, feeling himself begin to shake again.

_I can’t let that happen! I won’t!_

_You’re an angel! You cannot, under any circumstances, die for a demon!_ The voice was getting louder and louder.

 _I can survive this!_ Aziraphale yelled, trying to outshout it.

 _You cannot be sure!_ It yelled back at him.

Rationalizing. Rationalizing had always worked on the voice, and so he scrambled to find some arguments to persuade it.

 _I will survive, a holy wound can be healed on me, no problem!_ He tried to make himself believe that as firmly as he could. The voice was not so optimistic.

_If you can get to an archangel in time, then yes! But you have barely any strength left! You’ll be able to do the switch and then you’ll pass out, you won’t be able to reach Heaven if you’re unconscious, so you’ll die soon after._

_I can easily abandon the corporation before that happens, I’ll have enough energy for that!_ Aziraphale retorted. _I can stop passing it over to Crowley, he’ll be fine for a while on his own. I’ll gain some strength, and I’ll be able to do the switch and go straight to Heaven so that the archangels can help me._

He could do this. Still holding Crowley’s hand, he stopped the energy flow from himself to the demon, feeling his friend start to grow weaker with every second. But he would survive for an hour or so without Aziraphale’s help, so there was plenty of time.

The switch was not an invasive miracle, it wouldn’t hurt the demon as much as a healing or a seal would. It would last only a fraction of a second, enough to move the holy wound away from him. And, most importantly, the divinity would finally leave his form, and he could start rebuilding his own strength without losing any more, he could actually start to heal.

It was possible.

 _Moving a thing to a different place will not take much of my energy, it’s easy._ Aziraphale continued his persuasion, trying to seem rational.

 _It might take more than you can spare and you’re not allowed to risk that._ The voice replied, unaffected.

 _He’s of much use, I can be easily replaced!_ Aziraphale desperately tried to switch tactics. _It is my duty to try, Heaven will benefit more from having him alive than me!_

 _It’s not true._ The voice boomed. _You’re an angel. He’s a demon. You cannot risk that. You have to be a good angel._

Aziraphale startled, and stopped searching for any more arguments. This was it. He took a deep breath.

_But I’m not a good angel. I am friends with a demon. I can risk that, and I will._

Then he tuned the voice out.

*******

He had done something similar before, several times, he knew how it worked. For example in Egypt, during the plagues. He hadn’t been allowed to heal the Egyptians, he’d been outright ordered not to. But there’d been children there, suffering in a pointless conflict they couldn’t understand, and Aziraphale hadn’t had it in him to simply stand by and watch – much less rejoice, like he’d been told to. He’d been forbidden to heal, so he’d come up with something else. He’d taken whatever boils he could away from them and onto himself, and then he’d immediately healed them. He’d been allowed to heal himself, after all. It had been a loophole, but Aziraphale had always been good with technicalities. He was good at finding ways others would never notice.

He would do the same, here. It was a simple exchange, really. This time, it would happen on both physical and ethereal levels, but it wouldn’t matter much, the mechanism was the same. Changing the place of the wound, it was as simple as moving a cup of cocoa from the kitchen into his hand.

He could do this. And Heaven really would benefit from whatever the outcome would be, regardless of what the voice had been trying to say – having Crowley alive was good for the Great Plan, he really believed that it was. Even if he’d stopped lying to himself that that was the reason he was willing to risk himself, he was still glad he could help Heaven in that regard.

Aziraphale sat there for a couple of minutes longer, waiting for some of his energy to replenish, gathering his strength. And his courage, if he was honest with himself.

Now that he’d actually made his decision, he found he was truly, deeply, terribly scared. There really was a possibility that he wouldn’t make it, he knew. He desperately didn’t want to die, but he also didn’t want Crowley to die, and if he weighed _there’s a chance I won’t survive_ against _Crowley will undoubtedly die if I don’t risk it_ , he knew what the only possible choice was.

It was hard, harder than he’d expected when he’d been trying to argue with the voice, but he really needed to start moving before he’d run out of time. Before Crowley would run out of time. He wouldn’t let fear stop him; he might not be a perfect angel, but he was not a coward.

He stared at Crowley’s face for a moment longer, and then, with a tremendous effort, let go of his hand. It felt like a betrayal, and he hoped the demon would forgive him.

He went over to the desk on stiff legs and wrote down a note for Crowley to find, before placing it in clear view on the coffee table. He took the demon’s sunglasses from their place on his collar and stared at them for a moment. He still couldn’t believe he’d been trusted with them, and trusted with so much more as a consequence. He’d said he’d give them back, and he was grateful he could actually keep his promise, against all odds. He set them down next to the note, hoping that Crowley knew how much the gesture meant to him. Then he took off his waistcoat and shirt, and laid them out neatly folded on the armchair he’d vacated. He didn’t want to get them stained, especially if he hoped to come back and wear them again.

He looked down at the sofa and frowned slightly, noticing the bloodstains covering the material. He hadn’t had the presence of mind to miracle it clean earlier, and he couldn’t spare any energy now. He supposed miracling them away wouldn’t help any, anyway, he’d always remember they’d been there. He’d need a new sofa, most probably. Still, he didn’t want to stain the poor thing more than it already was. He reached into the first aid kit still lying next to it, retrieved a long bandage and, with deft hands, wrapped a thick layer around his middle.

He supposed he was ready – or as ready as he could be, in any case. He hoped he’d waited long enough and managed to gather enough energy, because he really needed to begin. He reached over and tried to move Crowley slightly on the sofa, so that there was some space next to him – he needed to lie down before he started, or he’d keel over right away. Gingerly, he stretched out next to the demon. He could sense Crowley still had some strength left but he was cold, so frightfully cold, and Aziraphale felt his decision solidify. He simply had to do this, whatever the result, the alternative didn’t bear thinking about. He closed his eyes and reached for his magic, knowing he would have to be very quick. He could do this. Crowley needed him. He focused on the holy wound in the demon’s body and true form and, with one last deep breath, he did the switch.

*******

The hand had disappeared and he thought that had to be it. This was where he’d end. He didn’t really mind anymore. Without the hand, there didn’t seem to be much point in staying. He felt himself slipping away and he didn’t try to catch himself, he simply let go.

Suddenly, though, there was nowhere _to_ go, the gap that’d promised eternal nothingness no longer there. It was confusing. It’d been there just a moment ago, how could it disappear? He couldn’t slip away if there was no gate, so he stayed where he was, everything much too confusing, too empty, and too cold, all at once.

The cold was all consuming, though, it permeated everything he was made of. It was everywhere. It felt like he didn’t need to leave to be gone, after all. The cold would take care of him.

*******

Oh it hurt, it hurt so much more than Aziraphale had expected. Crowley had hid it well, the brave idiot, but the wound was bloody painful. Not that he couldn’t take it, he definitely could, he would’ve just appreciated a little heads up, that’s all. If Crowley could take the pain, though, he would push through it, too. Struggling to take a breath, Aziraphale tried to focus. If it hurt, it was actually good news, it meant it had probably worked – the physical part of it, at least.

With an effort, Aziraphale peeled his eyes open and touched the bandages on his stomach. Oh, yes, it had definitely worked, he could see the material stain with red as the pain intensified. Relief crashed into him and he almost forgot he couldn’t let himself fall asleep, there was still something he needed to do.

He needed to abandon the corporation before he lost enough energy and passed out. He hadn’t yet – which was a miracle in itself, he’d been so afraid he’d lose consciousness right away and that’d be it – but he would, soon, which would get him stuck here until he died. He could feel his essence and his energy slowly leaking through the holy gap in his true form and he knew he didn’t have much time left. He startled at the realization – a holy wound on the spiritual plane meant that the ethereal part of his plan had also worked.

Crowley was safe. He felt grateful tears pricking at his eyes and he let them fall. The most important part of the plan had worked, he could go get himself some help now. The archangels would probably want answers, yes, but they would take care of him first, and he’d think of something to tell them later. He closed his eyes and reached inside to sever the connection between himself and his body, knowing it would transport him straight to Heaven where the archangels would probably still be able to heal him, when a sudden fear stilled him.

Was Crowley safe, really? He hadn’t checked, and he needed to do that, he needed to make sure the demon would be alright before he went, so that all of this wasn’t for nothing. He knew his time was running short, but he forced himself to reach out to Crowley, trying to assess his state.

Fear gripped his throat. Holiness was gone from the demon’s true form, but his energy was so depleted it didn’t matter much anymore. He wouldn’t survive, not like this, not when he was spending more energy on sustaining himself than he could replenish in his dwindled state. He would die if left like this, with or without the holy wound.

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. He knew what it meant, and he knew what would happen to him if he spent his last reserves of energy on stabilizing the demon. He knew he’d pass out and he’d never be able to reach Heaven. He didn’t waste strength to think about it.

He poured as much of his energy as he could into his friend’s true form, feeling him gain strength, feeling him go back from the precipice, and he hoped it was enough. If it was, he wouldn’t regret it.

Then, darkness took him, and he lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Well, I DID promise Crowley would get better soon, didn't I? Please don't kill me :P
> 
> Aziraphale went from "is it okay if i try to help a demon" to "i CAN and WILL die for this demon" real quick - but, in his defense, he'd been ready to do this for ages, he just didn't know that XD
> 
> Also, it's the third time I've finished a chapter with someone passing out, I should stop doing that.
> 
> Next chapter on Saturday! Please please please tell me what you think!!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley was warm. He was wrapped up in something soft that helped to keep him even warmer, and he didn’t feel like ever emerging from his cozy cocoon. He was tired, so tired, but he felt strangely safe and at ease, all the same. It couldn’t hurt to sleep for a decade more, maybe two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thank you all so so so much for reading, commenting and leaving kudos!! I hope you know I'd die for all of you <3
> 
> I feel like I should perhaps give a warning for something that happens in the first section of this chapter, but it would mean spoilers, so I'll leave the warning in the notes at the end of this chapter for those who want to check it!
> 
> Enjoy!!

Crowley was warm. He was wrapped up in something soft that helped to keep him even warmer, and he didn’t feel like ever emerging from his cozy cocoon. He was tired, so tired, but he felt strangely safe and at ease, all the same. It couldn’t hurt to sleep for a decade more, maybe two.

He felt a distinct lack of pain, which was, admittedly, a strange observation to make – strange enough for his foggy brain to point out that perhaps it shouldn’t be one of the first things to take note of after waking up. He frowned, trying to focus. He was missing something, he was sure of it.

He was lying on his back, tucked in and all, but his mattress was usually softer, and he was definitely covered with some fluffy blanket, not his silk sheets. He realized he couldn’t remember falling asleep in the first place. Alarm sounded in his head and Crowley forced his heavy eyelids up, trying to assess the situation.

The ceiling was high and faintly familiar, but he couldn’t place it in his memories that he still struggled to fully access. Blinking several times to clear his vision and chase the remnants of sleep away from his mind, he turned his head to the side and stilled.

Aziraphale was lying right next to him, face pale as a sheet, eyes closed. Panic flooded Crowley’s mind and he jumped upright, ignoring the way his head pounded at the sudden motion. Was the angel even breathing? Something was wrong, something was very, deeply wrong and he needed to make it right as soon as possible, because the angel didn’t sleep, he never slept, and he shouldn’t be so pale, and everything about his face screamed _something bad has happened_.

With trepidation, the demon leaned over the angel and let the blanket slip off his shoulders. It pooled around his middle, revealing a bandage covering his stomach, and Crowley’s mind screeched to a halt as he _remembered_.

At first, nothing was making sense. His hands flew to his abdomen but it didn’t hurt at the touch and, when he tore the bandages off, the skin underneath was unblemished and whole. His mind was blank, refusing to start working again, too paralyzed to provide him with any conclusions. He didn’t understand what had happened. He was awake, which, he realized belatedly, shouldn’t be the case; he was warm and alive when he knew he should be dead, so what had happened?!

His eyes snapped back to Aziraphale, frantically searching his face, and he felt the urge to start pulling his own hair out. What had this idiot done?!

Only then did he notice Aziraphale’s bare chest and the bandage covering the angel’s stomach, matching his own. A single red stain tainted the otherwise white material. Crowley’s heart stopped. No. No, no, no, no, _no_.

This didn’t make any sense, it couldn’t be true, he refused, no, _please_ , no.

With trembling hands, Crowley reached out to touch the angel’s arm. He felt like he shouldn’t do that when the angel couldn’t move away, but he needed to check. It was freezing. Dread pooled in Crowley’s stomach and he felt like throwing up. _No, no, no._

Frenzied, he stretched out his senses to see the angel’s true form, desperately searching for any proof that this wasn’t actually happening, hoping, almost praying for his conclusion to be wrong. But he was right. He was right, and the world crumbled down around him. The holy wound was there, oozing angelic essence and energy.

Crowley knew what must have happened, logically; but also, logically, he knew that couldn’t be what had happened. The angel wouldn’t do something like that. Why would he? It didn’t make any damn sense and this must be just some nightmare that his cruel mind was conjuring in his dying moments. It was the only sound explanation.

It was getting more and more difficult to breathe, and even the knowledge that he technically didn’t need air wasn’t helping – Crowley felt like he was suffocating.

No, he needed to snap out of it; it didn’t matter at the moment what had happened and how, it only mattered that the angel was dying and he should do something about it now, before it was too late. The essence and energy were flowing out of Aziraphale with every second he wasted – but, if they were still leaking out, it meant the angel was still alive. Barely, but alive. He clung to that thought with all he had, letting it ground him.

He needed to do _something_.

But what? The wound was holy, demons couldn’t do anything to help with something like that, he’d know, he’d bloody seen them die from such wounds; and even if Aziraphale had found some miraculous way to save him (what was the angel _thinking_ , it didn’t make any sense, what had he done, why, why, _why_ ), Crowley couldn’t do the same. The wound was full of divinity, the demon was powerless against it, couldn’t just take it back, no matter how much he wished he’d been able to.

Despair started to fill up his chest with spikes and it hurt, he didn’t know how to make that stop, he didn’t know how to stop the life flowing out of the angel and he wanted to scream.

Aziraphale could withstand a holy miracle that could heal him, obviously, he was an angel; but Crowley was no archangel, he couldn’t perform such a miracle.

Archangels. He needed to get Aziraphale to the archangels. Why had it taken him so long to figure that out? Why was his mind still so damn clouded and useless?! Aziraphale didn’t have time, and he was wasting it on being a miserable fool.

How could he get the angel to Heaven? There was no way he’d manage to drag him to one of the portals in London in time, and Crowley still didn’t have enough energy to teleport on his own, let alone with a passenger. Besides, how would he do that? It wasn’t like he could just waltz into Heaven with an angel on his back, that would’ve doomed them both.

He knew Aziraphale had a transportation circle somewhere in his bookshop; he’d never told him so outright, but he’d said enough for Crowley to infer the information. Still, that option was out; Aziraphale was barely there, and that way required too much energy. The angel wouldn’t have been able to withstand it, even if Crowley had given him some of his own strength. On top of that, to use the transportation circle, one needed to prepare, or the body would be discorporated.

Crowley stilled. That was it. He really was being such a useless idiot, it was so obvious! The angel needed to discorporate, then he’d go straight to Heaven, and the demon wouldn’t even have to go there with him – which was _really_ convenient. But how would Aziraphale… No.

No, _please, no_. Crowley couldn’t, he just couldn’t, this was too much. He’d spent six thousand years trying to prevent the angel from discorporating, he couldn’t just… he couldn’t.

What had Aziraphale been thinking?! Why hadn’t he left the corporation before he’d become too weak to do so? How much energy had this cost him, exactly? And how much time had passed between whatever he’d done and Crowley’s coming around? What if the demon had taken a bit longer to wake up? What would’ve happened then? Had Aziraphale considered this? Crowley still couldn’t comprehend any of it, it was just too insane, too unthinkable, and simply _wrong_. This wasn’t how it all was supposed to go, he’d never have allowed this if he’d had any say in the matter. He should never have come here in the first place, he’d been such a _fool_. But how had Crowley been supposed to know what the stupid angel would do? Aziraphale was dying because he’d… he’d sacrificed himself for him, there was no other way to put it. This was too much. And Crowley was wasting the angel’s precious time, again, but he was simply not built for this.

He had to do it, though, and he had to do it now. It went against every instinct he’d developed over the millennia, and against everything in his mind that screamed at him to keep the angel away from pain, away from the embarrassment of discorporation, away from having to go back to Heaven where nobody appreciated him like they should. This was the only way to save him at this point, he knew, he knew this would only kill the body, not Aziraphale, but still, he’d never hated himself more than in that moment when he miracled up a knife.

He put a shaking hand on Aziraphale’s chest and poured as much energy as he could give into his pale body – which was not too much, he’d just woken up and he was still so weak – hoping with all he had that he hadn’t been hesitating for too long, that the angel would be strong enough to make it. Hoping he’d survive long enough for the archangels to save him. Hoping his blow wouldn’t actually kill the angel, which could be the case if Aziraphale didn’t have enough energy to survive the trip to Heaven.

When he noticed the edges of his vision begin to blur, he stopped the energy flow and, in one swift motion, trying not to think about what he was doing, he put the knife in his friend’s heart, feeling him slip away as it stopped beating.

Crowley let go of the hilt, put his head in his hands and began to weep.

*******

**Eight months later**

Aziraphale had been standing at the entrance to his bookshop with one hand already on the handle for a good few minutes. It wasn’t that he was scared to go in, he was just… He was a bit anxious, alright, he could admit that. He just didn’t know what sight would greet him inside, and he suddenly wasn’t sure he was brave enough to face it, even though he’d been willing to give near anything to be able to come back here for the past few months.

Had it worked? Had he given Crowley enough energy before he’d left? Or would he see the demon’s corpse still lying on his sofa, alongside his own former body? These thoughts had been plaguing his mind ever since he'd woken up in Heaven and he'd had no way of making sure the demon had survived. It wasn’t like he could ask the other angels outright – he had asked them about “demonic activity” on Earth, but they’d just reassured him that nothing amiss had been reported. Which, needless to say, hadn’t been reassuring at all. The angel shuddered. No, it must have worked, he was just being paranoid. Of course it had worked. He should enter the shop already.

He just really didn’t know what he’d do if he was wrong. He also really didn’t want to see his own lifeless body. The new one he was now occupying was exactly the same, in every respect, but it was… well, it was _new_ and he could feel it. It didn’t really feel like part of him, not yet; he’d have to get used to it, and that was going to take time. It was alright, though, he wasn’t complaining. He was alright.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The bookshop was just as he remembered it, dusty, cluttered, stuffed full of books. Well, maybe a bit more dusty than usual, but that was to be expected, nobody had been here for months, after all. It felt very much like home, but he couldn’t let himself breathe easily yet.

With his heart in his mouth, he went over to the backroom and almost collapsed with relief. The sofa was empty. It was empty. Crowley’s body wasn’t here, so it must have worked, he’d survived, and Aziraphale wanted to cry with joy as he felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders.

He didn’t cry, though. He couldn’t, not anymore. He’d promised himself he’d never lose control over himself like he had back then, he had to try harder. He was still an angel, after all, and maybe he wasn’t perfect, but he could damn well try. He had to.

He’d had much time to think about things when he’d been convalescing in Heaven. He’d tried to unpack everything he’d discovered but it was just too much, all the time in eternity wouldn’t be enough to deal with all of _that_. Not when things stood as they did, not when he belonged in Heaven, and Crowley in Hell, at the end of things. He had lost the luxury of being able to lie to himself, he knew as much, but he’d discovered he could simply ignore whatever tried to keep him from his duties. So, he cared about Crowley, and thought of him as his friend, but that didn’t have to influence his actions. He was stronger than that. He was an angel, he wouldn’t let himself forget about that again; he couldn’t afford to.

Crowley couldn’t afford for him to forget that, either. It was Aziraphale’s stupid recklessness that had got them into this whole mess in the first place, and the angel wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He’d been given another chance. This time, he’d protect them both. He just needed to forget everything that had happened here eight months ago and keep his distance, like a good angel. He had to try to be a good angel again, for both their sakes, so that nothing like this could ever happen again. He didn’t think he could bear it if it did.

It would hurt, it would hurt like hell, he knew. He would see Crowley again eventually, and he’d have to pretend he didn’t want to hug him out of pure joy he was alive (he was _alive_ , against all odds, _it had worked_ ), and it would hurt. But he wasn’t weak, he wouldn’t let himself be weak. He could take this pain, he’d make himself endure it. He’d be alright.

He went a bit farther into the room on stiff legs and noticed the armchair was back in its usual place. The first aid kit and bowl were gone, and there were no bloodstains on the sofa or the carpet, everything was as if nothing unusual had happened here. Which was not true, he knew, but he was glad his bookshop was on his side, ignoring the situation with him.

He knew the bookshop hadn’t cleaned itself, though, of course it hadn’t. He knew who must have done it, and why, and he felt his heart squeeze with some emotion that was decidedly hard to ignore, but he managed to distract himself by walking over to the armchair and taking in his old clothes.

They were lying there, neatly folded, just as he’d left them. He felt tears gather in his eyes. There’d been a moment when he’d thought that he wouldn’t be able to come back here, ever again. He’d thought he’d die, to put it simply, and he’d accepted it. Here he was, though, his old shirt in his hands, the worn out material dusty but still soft to the touch. He still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to survive. He only remembered everything going dark as he kept pouring his energy into the demon, he couldn’t recall leaving his corporation. He guessed his self-preservation instincts had kicked in and subconsciously severed the connection to his body, he must’ve been too scared of dying to truly give away all he had. Which is why he’d been so terrified he hadn’t given Crowley enough, saving his own skin instead. He’d been so disgusted by himself whenever this thought had come to haunt him, but it turned out he’d managed to give enough. Crowley had survived.

He’d been considerate enough to take care of Aziraphale’s old body, which couldn’t have been a pleasant task. Despite his best intentions, the angel felt grateful. He guessed he couldn’t control his emotions, though, so it wasn’t his fault if he felt grateful, the thing that mattered was whether or not he acted on those feelings. Alright, that was easy, he just needed to think about something else.

He slowly changed into his own clothes, feeling a bit more like himself than he had ever since he’d woken up in Heaven, the wound already healed, and his essence slowly rebuilding. The archangels had been kind enough to wait until he’d restored some of his strength before they’d started to grill him about what had happened. He’d tried not to lie, or rather, lie as little as possible. He’d failed them enough, hadn’t he? He’d tried to give them a few general facts.

He’d been making sure his job would be done when the demon stationed on Earth, Crowley, had appeared. There’d been a fight, and a holy blade. Then, he’d gotten this wound, tried to take care of it on his own for a while, and then promptly discorporated to get help. He’d made sure the demon Crowley hadn’t had the holy blade on him before he’d gone, obviously.

If the disjointed explanation hadn’t been all making sense, the archangels hadn’t let it show. They’d been most understanding, if slightly worried where a demon could’ve gotten a holy blade, but they’d told him not to worry about it for now. They’d said another angel had killed Crowley after he’d wounded Aziraphale, so he shouldn’t worry about him, either (he’d expressed his surprise and inquired whether they had any confirmation the demon was really dead, to which they’d replied he shouldn’t think too much about his work for the moment, which hadn’t reassured him in the slightest). They’d admonished him gently that he hadn’t come to them right away, he’d been almost too far gone to save when he’d finally arrived, but they’d been glad to note he’d been regaining his strength. They’d told him to rest in Heaven for a while. Then, they’d left, and Aziraphale had tried to forget how much he didn’t want to stay in Heaven for any period of time, how much he was scared whether Crowley had actually survived, and how bad of an angel he’d turned out to be. He hadn’t been resting well, truth be told, which was probably why it had taken him so long to fully recover. The archangels had insisted that he should rest some more even after he’d gotten completely well, despite his assurances that he felt absolutely fine. The cartloads of paperwork he’d had to fill in when he’d been finally granted a new body had prolonged his stay in Heaven even more, and when, at last, he’d been free to leave, it’d turned out eight full months had passed on Earth. He’d had to stop himself from running to his bookshop as fast as he could – running was unbefitting of a good angel, he supposed – hope and fear filling his heart in equal measures, and he’d been trying to ignore them both.

He folded the pristine, pure white shirt and waistcoat Heaven had provided his new body with, and put them down on the coffee table. The white trousers had to stay, for now, he hadn’t thought to take his old ones off before discorporating, so Crowley had probably gotten rid of them along with his former body. He’d have to find some new ones that would feel like _him_.

He hoped it was alright if he still had things that made him feel like him. He was an angel, but he was surely allowed to have a taste and a personality, right? He’d never seen other angels really entertaining the thought of a personal style, but his superiors had never really protested when they’d visited. They’d been surprised, yes, but hadn’t forbidden him to continue. So it was alright, presumably. He really had to start being careful with things like this.

He run his hand down the fancy material of his waistcoat, and felt a little better. _This_ was him. These were his clothes, and this was his bookshop, and he was finally back again.

With a sigh, he sat down in the armchair. He’d almost sat down on the sofa, but he’d stopped himself in time. He couldn’t sit down there. With or without the bloodstains that once had covered it, the thing held too many memories; memories that were much too fresh, too horrifying, too painful, too _dangerous_. He’d really have to buy a new sofa. Tiredly, he ran his hand down his face. Why was he so tired already? This was a new corporation, it hadn’t even spent an hour on Earth.

Maybe it was just him. Other angels seemed to be fine and full of righteous drive and enthusiasm at all times. He’d known he was weak, but he’d thought he was better than this. Was he going to sit in the armchair and rest for the whole day? He’d already wasted eight months resting, there was a job that needed to be done, miracles that needed to be performed. He had overdue paperwork to organize and fill in. He really should start to move.

What was his problem? He’d wanted to make sure Crowley was alright and he had, that should be enough. The demon was fine, in all probability, so Aziraphale should put him out of his mind and focus on trying to be a proper angel for once in his life. He didn’t seem to be able to even stand up, though. He wanted to sit here for several hours more. He wanted to drink some cocoa. He wanted to see Crowley. Mostly, he wanted to start crying, even though everything had turned out alright.

Maybe there was just something broken within him, maybe he would never be a proper angel, no matter how hard he’d keep trying. That wasn’t an excuse for not trying, though, he supposed. With an effort, he forced himself to stand up and go over to the desk to start sorting through his paperwork. This entire situation must have taken a greater toll on him than he’d realized, or than he’d been willing to admit, but he could pull through. He was alright. He was alright.

*******

He wasn’t alright, and he missed the time when it had been easy to lie to himself that he was. He knew he should ignore the way he felt, but it was getting harder and harder, especially when he’d been skimming through the same documents for several hours without comprehending a single word. He couldn’t focus, and he had to finally admit that he wouldn’t get anything done until he did something about the uneasiness in his stomach.

He could indulge himself one last time, right? Only this one time, and then he’d be able to focus on being a good angel, he was sure. He just… he had to see Crowley. He needed to see him with his own two eyes to make sure the demon really was alright, that no irreparable damage had been done to his true form, that he was alive and safe, and… that he didn’t blame him. Aziraphale knew Crowley didn’t, but that knowledge did nothing to stop his own guilt from eating away at him, and he’d like to see the forgiveness in the demon’s eyes, just to make sure. Perhaps it meant he was weak, if he needed forgiveness from a demon to function properly, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He knew Crowley had read his note, and had probably taken it with him, because it was gone from the coffee table. That was good, it meant he knew what had happened. Aziraphale would hate for him to stay in the dark for so long, especially now that he knew how much the demon actually cared. It was humbling, really, to know just how much; Aziraphale didn’t think he really deserved such a devotion, not from someone who was meant to hate him, and who was meant to be hated by him in turn. It was a gift he couldn’t take, not anymore; it was a gift he had to reject in the future.

But today, just this once, he’d allow himself to go check up on the demon, because, after all that had happened, he supposed it was a little justifiable. The last time he’d seen Crowley, he’d been unconscious and cold and _dying_ , he had to get that image out of his brain, and the only way he knew how was to see the living, breathing demon with his own two eyes. He was bound to run into him eventually anyway, whether he’d initiate the contact or not, and he was certain he’d handle it better if it happened on his terms. This way, at least, he would be prepared. Also, the longer he’d have to wait for that meeting, the more unfocused and emotionally unstable he’d get, and it’d end up being much more difficult for both parties, he was sure.

Decision made, Aziraphale put his paperwork in one of the drawers, put on his dusty coat that had been hanging by the door for eight months now, and went out into the chilly afternoon air.

*******

Not many people would call the hustle of London calming, but Aziraphale found it put him at ease. People were walking in all directions, sometimes bumping into his shoulders, talking, shouting, _laughing_. Oh, he’d missed this. He’d missed Earth, he’d missed humans, he’d missed being in the middle of a busy street, just taking everything in, drinking in the joy that only humans were ever able to exude. He had hardly noticed anything on his way from the portal to Heaven, he’d been too anxious to get to the bookshop as fast as he could, be he could appreciate it now. He really was back. After such a long time spent in the vast, white, empty halls of Heaven, he could breathe easily again.

He knew where Crowley lived, even if he’d never visited his London apartment – it was important to know each other’s addresses, in case of some emergency. The demon had come by the bookshop several times, always equipped with some excuse that had allowed Aziraphale to let him in for a while ( _stupid_ , he should be more assertive in the future), but the angel had never had an opportunity to see Crowley’s flat. He managed to locate the townhouse easily enough, and climbed the stairs to the correct floor.

He hesitated. Could he really afford to go in there? This was dangerous, he’d be going out of his way to expose himself to unwanted emotions. He’d promised himself to stop being reckless, and yet, he’d ended up at Crowley’s door, without a good reason, except for the overwhelming need to see him again, safe and sound. But he was strong enough not to lose control again, he’d spent months in Heaven preparing for this, so it would be fine, right? Right.

He took a steadying breath and knocked.

Silence answered him. Aziraphale knocked again, and then once more, but the door remained stubbornly closed. Fear gripped his stomach, even though the angel kept telling himself Crowley was probably just not at home, busy with his work, this was normal, it’s not like they had an appointment. His brain wouldn’t listen, though, feeding him images of Crowley, who’d somehow managed to get to his flat, but had collapsed in the hall, weak, lifeless, _dead_.

Aziraphale felt his breathing quicken and he tried to get himself under control. He was stronger than this, he had to be stronger than this. If Crowley had managed to clean his bookshop, he must have been well enough for his essence to heal, he was surely fine by now.

But he’d come here to make sure the demon was alright, and he couldn’t go back to his bookshop just because Crowley wasn’t there. Aziraphale didn’t know if he’d manage to muster enough desperate courage to come here for the second time, not if the voice decided to start arguing with him again. This time, he’d have to listen, he knew. He’d always listen to it from now on.

He could just wait here for the demon to return, greet him politely and let him know he was back, maybe also work out some new, safer terms of their Arrangement. Crowley would understand. He always did, he’d always been so patient with him. He’d understand that Aziraphale couldn’t go on like they had before, and he’d forgive him, like always. This was for the best.

Aziraphale managed to wait for fifteen full minutes before he started panicking again. The image of Crowley, dead on the floor just behind the closed door, would not leave him, and his heart was beating faster and faster. He knocked one more time, with the same result as before, and, letting desperation cloud his judgement for a second, he miracled the lock open. He startled at his own lack of control. What was he thinking? He couldn’t just go in like this. Actually, he shouldn’t be here at all.

He was here, though, and he’d opened the door, however impolite and foolish of him it had been, so he could as well take a look. Just to make sure Crowley wasn’t lying dead somewhere in there. It was quite reasonable, really. He had duties to perform, he shouldn’t waste his time waiting for a demon who was not going to come, right? Right.

He opened the door just a fraction and peeked inside. He wasn’t greeted by the sight of a demon’s corpse spread out on the floor, so his wildly beating heart calmed a bit. He opened the door wider and took a careful step inside.

The flat was big, bigger than Aziraphale would’ve expected from a townhouse apartment, but he guessed Crowley had his ways to influence space. He’d been at many of Crowley’s residences over the ages, but the demon had never stayed in one place for long enough to make it his home, not like he seemed to have done in London, where they’d both been staying for quite a while now. He looked around, curious to see how Crowley had arranged his personal space. It was perhaps a bit of a transgression on his part, but he’d come in already, looking around wasn’t much worse. The furniture looked expensive but it was sparse, only a couch, a desk, and some cupboards, and Aziraphale could see no personal belongings, no redundant elements that would disturb the blankness of the flat, except for a few artworks hanging on the walls. The ceiling was high, and the walls were painted white, which was a surprise, but perhaps not a big one. Crowley enjoyed clean, vast spaces, the angel supposed it had something to do with the cluttered, cramped conditions of Hell.

Carefully, without touching anything, Aziraphale made his way over to the door he guessed led to the demon’s bedroom. He just needed to check if Crowley wasn’t lying there unconscious or worse, and then he’d make his leave to wait politely outside until his return.

The bedroom was blessedly empty, and Aziraphale felt a wave of relief that he pointedly ignored. Right. He’d been an anxious fool and he’d overreacted, like usual. He should get his emotions in check, and leave as quickly as he could.

He turned around and almost jumped, and then he had to force himself to stay where he was because there, at the door, stood Crowley, breathing, whole, alive, alive, so marvelously _alive_ , and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to run to him and hug him, and laugh, and scream, and weep.

He’d told himself he was strong enough to see him again, but it turned out he’d managed to lie to himself once again. He finally got the clear proof that his friend was alive, after eight months of uncertainty and fear and _guilt_ , and it was all coming back to him now, and it took all he had not to start crying right there and then.

Crowley was alive, and that was all that mattered. Crowley was alive. He was alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Warning: Crowley needs to discorporate Aziraphale to help him get to Heaven, and he does this by stabbing him in the heart. It doesn't kill Aziraphale, for whom a body is only a corporation, but it can still be unpleasant to read about._
> 
> *******
> 
> YAY they both survived this mess, like I promised!! I think the Canon-Compliant tag might stop being comforting now tho, seeing where in canon this story is placed... but wow, they both have discovered so many things, and at least now they can no longer lie to themselves! Progress.
> 
> Only one chapter left! To be honest, I thought I'd manage to wrap everything up in six chapters and that this would be the last one, but it took over 3k words for Aziraphale to even reach Crowley's flat so... yeah, I needed another chapter haha :D Which is why so little happens here (except for the quite intense beginning), but I hope you guys still liked it! And I know everyone knew Crowley would be standing in the doorway when Aziraphale turned around but I couldn't help myslef. Hey, at least I didn't finish the chapter with anyone passing out this time!
> 
> Please tell me what you think!! I LOVE reading your comments, each and every one! See you on Tuesday! <333


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